Minutiae: Or 156 Things I Know About You
by Atlin Merrick
Summary: Here in no particular order: Little truths and tiny facts John and Sherlock have learned about one another over the years. All chapters stand alone. Humor/Slash
1. Chapter 1

**Minutiae (Or 156 Things I Know About You)**

Time will tell. That's the beautiful thing about time.

It will tell you how you feel about your flatmate, and eventually how he feels about you. It will tell you what to do about those feelings, how to express them, how to make them grow. And as days turn into weeks, and weeks into years, time will tell you nearly everything you need to know about the man you love. Some of the things learned are momentous, most are not. All of them are dear.

Here, in no particular order are some of the things John has learned about Sherlock, and some of the things Sherlock has learned about John:

* John only just barely sweats. Sure he perspires when he's exerted himself or it's hot, but it's almost as if he's doing it to be polite, his forehead just sort of dewy, his skin kind of glowy. It's distracting mostly, but what's completely unjust is that he never _stinks,_ which, you know, is generally part of the human condition but not, apparently, part of John. They have run through half of London some nights and when they're back at the flat Sherlock can barely stand next to himself he's in want of a shower so badly, but John? John just smells of tea and slightly damp wool. Sherlock makes him get in the shower with him anyway.

* Sherlock doesn't really like dogs. He won't say why but John figures it's because a dog will not be stunned into silence by Sherlock's rhetoric, nor intimidated by his invective. The real reason—of which neither is aware—is that Sherlock has a mild allergy to canines and tends to feel fluish when he's near them.

* John parts his hair differently, depending on his mood after a shower. Some weeks his part is on the right, and all is, well, right, with the world, and some weeks his part is on the left and just as Sherlock is getting used to that—he looks at John a lot, you know—the man moves his part again and Sherlock has to get used to _that_ and then—

* Sherlock would be a jewelry-wearing sort of man if he didn't have such a non-jewelry kind of lifestyle running down dark alleys and getting tackled to the ground by criminals. He wouldn't go for anything too flashy mind you, just a few things to off-set his bone structure, maybe a couple rings, perhaps a tasteful cuff. If John knew of this predilection he would almost certainly deck Sherlock out like a high-class hooker, slathering those long fingers in silver, his ears in tiny hoops or studs, and his neck in thin, elegant chains. Harem pants would, of course, be optional.

* When John was eight he devoured his first science fiction book and began a life-long affair with the genre. But like romance novels, sci-fi gets no respect, so John doesn't tell most people about his love of all things Martian, or robotic, or alien. He has told Sherlock however because Sherlock's from another planet anyway and it doesn't seem to bother him.

* Sherlock knows his brother is smarter than he is and while everyone thinks that drives him mad, it doesn't. He can guarantee you that there are dozens, maybe even hundreds of people brighter than he is in almost every way. What bothers him about Mycroft's brain is that it is so poorly used. Knowing the precisely right words to say to a pompous politician, or how to outwit the machinations of a magisterial monarch sound like such a boring waste of a perfectly good brain that Sherlock is cross with Mycroft most of the time simply on principle.

* John is five foot seven inches tall and though he's usually dated women smaller than he is, he never forgets that he's only five foot seven inches tall. Why he carries that information around in his head as if it were the same as saying asthmatic, or migraine-sufferer—as if it were a manageable but annoying disability—he can't tell you. But then came Sherlock. Sherlock who loves curling his longer frame around John's smaller one, who seems to find sustenance from the simple press of John's face against his neck when they hug. Never again will John wish to be anything more than five foot seven inches tall.

* If Sherlock sees John's jar of Marmite on the kitchen table he will literally turn around and leave the room. When they were growing up Mycroft used to make him breakfasts of Marmite on hot buttered toast and though he'd liked it for years, by the time he reached twelve some chemical change appears to have happened in his body and suddenly he could not abide the stuff. At this stage in his life the very smell of its…its _browness_ is enough to nearly empty Sherlock's stomach of the little he usually has in there. John thought about switching to peanut butter and jam on his toast, like some sort of crazy American, but he has his limits, too.

* Before the army, John wasn't a particularly tidy person. After the army some switch was thrown into the upright and locked position because now he _loves_ the adage "a place for everything and everything in its place" and if you go into his bedroom it shows. Sometimes, John'll find Sherlock in there doing some bit of critical thinking "because your room isn't as _noisy_ as mine." Once John tried to straighten Sherlock's room for this reason—a kind of 'we've been together eight months' anniversary present—but the melt down the detective had was not worth the almost-angry sex they'd enjoyed after _that_ fight.

* The one thing Sherlock will eat until he is sick is sweets. Put a pound of wine gums in front of him while he's watching a movie (boring!) with John and he will devour every last colorful morsel without regret (until later). Hand him a jar of jam and a spoon while he's talking about work and he will gorge on the entire thing without remorse (until later). While on a case once John watched him put back seven shots of syrupy cherry cordial as he interviewed a suspect, he's seen him put _six_ teaspoons of sugar in a six ounce cup of tea, and watched him sweeten a sausage once by dipping it straight into the sugar bowl.

* John has a bad habit of mentioning on his blog interesting cases that he never writes up. On more than one occasion a slightly-miffed reader has commented, "Wait, what? What's this about The Case of the Left Testicle? Did you really just write that? Did you actually have a case about a testicle? Where is it? Seriously, I'm looking for the link but I don't see any case about a testicle!" He's getting better about avoiding this faux pas, but just last week John had a reader comment bomb him (fifty five missives in fifty three minutes) because he'd mentioned The Case of the Amorous Police Horse but neglected to flesh that one out at all.

* Sherlock doesn't care for pet names unless John is the one giving and saying them. Yet even then not all pet names are created equal. Sherlock loves it when John calls him sweetheart, or baby, or my love when they're in bed, and he also secretly likes being called 'Lock when they're puttering around at home. But John has been forbidden from using the terms snookems, cuddle bear, Sherly, or sugar butt under pain of Tchaikovsky's Concerto for Violin in D Major being played for twenty minutes straight on a purposely out-of-tune violin.

* It's not natural for John to be physically demonstrative in public. He wants to be. He makes an effort to be. He will hold Sherlock's hand, he will kiss him, yet it's not a natural thing for him. It took awhile, but eventually he learned that the next best thing when kissing or handholding just didn't seem right—for example, when they were on a case and half of Scotland Yard was around—was whispering. For example, sometimes, if he wants to point out a salient medical fact about a body he'll sidle over to Sherlock, stand on tiptoe, and whisper it very softly in his ear. Usually he's rewarded with a brace of goosebumps all down Sherlock's rather amazing neck.

* It's not natural for Sherlock to be physically demonstrative except with John, sometimes Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft only as pertains to poking him in the chest with a violin bow. When he and John are out in public and he has already kissed the man eight times, held his hand for an hour, or hugged him until he's actually received a complaint from the doctor about the state of his ribs, Sherlock will switch things up by whispering in John's ear. Usually the things he says _should_ be whispered for they are often completely filthy (though warmly received). Usually Sherlock is rewarded with a very pretty blush all down John's rather lovely neck.

_

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_

_To be continued, until we learn 156 things about John and 156 about Sherlock. Why that number? Just popped into my head. Felt like a good challenge to go that high. And really, I have no idea._

_(Speaking of ideas thank you Caroline I for the one that John is very neat; Caroline II, thanks for the tip that Sherlock hates Marmite; and Loann thank you for telling me Sherlock loves jam and knows Mycroft is smarter than he is. You are all wonderful.)_


	2. Chapter 2

* Sherlock's beard is a dark ginger color, which surprised John the first time he saw it. Surprised him mostly because he didn't think that marble skin _could_ produce a beard, much less one of such an extravagant hue. Sherlock tells John the color comes from his Black Irish heritage but John thinks it's more likely an act of will, that Sherlock had made his beard that rare shade because he likes being different.

* John does not snore, John has never snored, John is blessedly snore-free. However, John knows someone who does snore, but he is never again going to tell that someone that he snores because that someone, who has a surprisingly fragile ego, will deny the fact in the strongest possible terms, so frankly it's not worth the bother. It's not like Sherloc—it's not like _someone_ can stop snoring by an act of will, anyway. (Can they?)

* Sherlock has kissed a female twice in his life and no, neither time was it Mrs. Hudson. The first was when he was a very tall nine and the girl was twelve and should have known better. The second time he was sixteen and the girl was twenty two and should have known better. Both times there was tongue involved and it sure wasn't Sherlock's.

* John has kissed four other men before Sherlock, three when he was in the army and one when he was seventeen years old. Alcohol had been the impetus behind all four kisses, and each one had been with men significantly taller than himself. John now thinks those previous pecks with lanky men were a warm up for what was to come.

* Sherlock has never let his hair grow longer than it is now, a fact John finds appalling. As a matter of fact he's asked Sherlock if he would grow that glorious mop out, just once, but so far the detective resists. When John tells him he once had "more hair than an entire 80s rock group," Sherlock does not resist secretly emailing Harry, requesting photographic proof. When John's sister finally replies a month later, it is with a bad scan of one John H. Watson, pseudo rock star, teased blond hair, tight pants, and all. Sherlock immediately makes it the wallpaper on his laptop.

* Someone once asked John if he wished Sherlock was shorter. John's reply had been to ask that person if they wished their dog was blind. At the time he wasn't sure why he got so angry so quickly, but he knows now. Everyone—including him—tells Sherlock to change. Be nicer. Be quieter. Be more humble. Well screw that. Sherlock is perfectly fine as he is and if someone wants him to change they can talk to the ex-soldier about it, understand?

* Sherlock has possibly the loudest, most lavish sneezes John's ever heard. Once, when they were still a hundred yards from 221B, the detective sneezed twice, his entire body quite nearly flinging itself apart. When they got home they found that Mrs. Hudson had left a pot of honey-and-lemon tea and a box of tissues by their flat door.

* John often falls asleep in cabs, especially at night, mainly after they've been chasing criminals down alleys and over rooftops. Sometimes, when he's gone deeply and peacefully into dreams, night shadows and neon playing over his face, Sherlock will tell the cabbie to just keep driving awhile, and damn the expense.

* Yes, Sherlock often performs ridiculous experiments using absurd ingredients, but despite what everyone says, he rarely blows things up, and when he does it's almost always on purpose. As a matter of fact he can count on one (slightly injured) hand the number of times there has been an unintentional fire in 221B. (If forced to include unplanned clouds of smoke or sparks of any kind, however, that number quadruples.)

* John's belly button is an "outtie." When he was child of four and a half he wanted the much more popular "innie" and spent a good deal of time trying to poke his little fleshy nub back inside. He was so aggressive with his campaign that he ended up giving himself two belly button infections that year. When he told this to Sherlock in the kitchen one morning (how they got on the subject he'll never know), the detective got on his knees immediately and started peering at John's belly button, trying to think of an experiment to do on it. After awhile Sherlock gave up and, lifting their shirts, he aligned their stomachs until John's outtie was, um, sort of inside his innie.

* Sherlock has fifteen noticeable scars on his body. One came courtesy of an angry suspect and a two-by-four, another from an exploding beaker, a third from a fall off a fire escape. Most of the rest are small, pale ones on his biceps and thighs that he doesn't let anyone see (John has seen them). He put those scars there himself, long ago. He doesn't need to do that any more.

* John has five noticeable scars on his body. One is the result of a beer bottle exploding in his hand (a very short, embarrassing story), another came from Harry being bossy Harry and pushing him down when they were kids. The other three—one on his leg, one under his chin, and the other in his shoulder—are a legacy of the war. He tries not to look at them, but he does look at Sherlock when Sherlock looks at them, and that's healing enough.

_

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To be continued. We're now up to 26 of 312. Why 312? I have no idea._


	3. Chapter 3

* John can hold his breath longer than Sherlock can, which of course irks Sherlock no end but pleases the hell out of John. Actually it was the whole breath-holding thing that inspired John to start discovering all the small things he can do better than Sherlock and then to casually slip those things into every day life or conversation. If he can do so when others are around to bear witness he gives himself double points.

* Sherlock doesn't believe in god, per se, but being as he has no empirical evidence pro or con he doesn't really give the matter much thought. That hasn't stopped him from praying, however, more than once, with all his heart—making promises, uttering threats, and finally begging—for a certain ex-soldier he knows.

* John is a surprisingly good dancer, as Sherlock learned long ago, when they first got together. That skill has come in handy several times since then, first as a sexual aid (when John wants it, sometimes he _really_ wants it, and a little bumping-and-grinding against a distracted detective will often get it for him), but most recently during a case involving an heiresses' missing diamond-studded sandals (don't ask) and a light-fingered DJ with a predilection for short blond men.

* Sherlock will tell you he's not a pyromaniac, saying he clearly _does_ have impulse control (and to prove it he always ignores John's obvious fake cough which sounds suspiciously like _thatmouthyoucouldn'tshutitifyoutried)._ Anyway, far from having a mania to set things on fire, Sherlock will tell you he's more concerned with understanding how flames take things apart. The fact that, every time John builds a fire in their fireplace, Sherlock sits in front of it for hours, poking the logs and adding bits of fuel until the blaze is a conflagration is completely lost on him.

* John can't whistle for love or money. He tried learning when he was a kid, then when he was at college, then again when he was in the army, but he's pretty much given up by now. He did take another brief stab at it after Sherlock asked him to whistle down a cab, and then laughed his fool head off when he caught John waving his arms in a futile, semaphore-like fashion instead.

* Sherlock looks good in drag. Of course he does. He has had two and one half cases that required him to put on women's clothing, and both times he'd been propositioned. That half case, the one where no one hit on him? That doesn't count he says, because it involved a crime spree by a foot fetishist and the shoes John had picked pinched so Sherlock really hadn't done his best work.

* John is a little embarrassed about this one, so don't spread it around, but he once nursed himself to sleep on Sherlock's nipples. When the flu laid him low last winter, he couldn't work, barely ate, and sleep came only in fits. One night, after listening to John cough himself into exhaustion yet again, Sherlock stripped off his pajama shirt, turned to his lover thrashing in the bed, and said, "Suck." Half delirious from fatigue, John nuzzled close, pulled one of those nipple into his mouth, and did just that. He was out in minutes and slept soundly for the next nine hours.

* Sherlock has a love-hate relationship with tuxedos. He dislikes them on principle—it is a uniform after all—yet he knows he looks absolutely devastating in one. Seriously. As a matter of fact, the only reason John let him rent a deep freeze for a month one time then store an entire dead body in it (in sections) was because Sherlock first took him to dinner at Hakkasan, and wore a midnight blue tuxedo.

* John has worn his army dress blues three times since returning from Afghanistan, once to a funeral and twice to the weddings of fellow service men and women. He has worn _part_ of his blues on several occasions at Sherlock's request, but that's all you're going to know about that.

* Sherlock met Sherlock once, and was not amused. John still teases him about it and wishes dearly he'd gotten a photo. That photo would show a flock of famous faces in the background (they were researching a case and sort of crashed an event at the O2) and in the foreground, a man who looked very much like one Mr. Holmes, from tousled hair to lean frame to slanted eyes. The fact that the other man answered every one of the detective's scowls with a sweet grin and charmed John into giggling still pisses Sherlock off.

* John has cried in front of Sherlock thirty two times, though he knows of only three. Those twenty-nine other times have been when the doctor's deep in REM dreaming, revisiting a familiar, weary sheaf of nightmares: being shot, the long minutes he was alone afterward, and his personal war dead (so very many die, even under a surgeon's careful hands). When these dreams come Sherlock wipes the tears from John's face, then tugs him away from dreams with a kiss.

* Sherlock has cried in front of John exactly once, on a day last year when two alley thugs thought John was alone and crowded close, ready to "fuck up the little queer." Neither knew Sherlock was near, neither ever even saw his face, though he saw—and savaged—theirs. It took John nearly two minutes to pull him off the second man, and more than two hours of holding him to stop Sherlock's crying.

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Thank you so much to Caroline The First for her idea of John in uniform, Sherlock in a tuxedo, and John nursing. Please share your ideas if you'd like. We're now up to 36 of 312. Ever onward!_


	4. Chapter 4

* Sherlock fell in love with a woman once. Her name was Mrs. Patrick and she had ginger hair, small pearl earrings, and a tendency to lavish him with attention. In return he wrote her love letters (never mailed), brought her candy (but ate it before he could give it to her), and dreamed they would marry (and run off to Australia). Unfortunately, it was a love doomed from the very start: Sherlock was not quite six years old, Mrs. Patrick thirty two.

* John is ambidextrous, meaning he's equally skilled with both hands. It's sometimes been a useful gift as a surgeon, but overall it's a less handy (if you'll forgive the pun) attribute than you might think. Still, it has its benefits. Fascinated by the possibilities, Sherlock has thought up at least five experiments to test the range of John's abilities. These experiments, repeated, um, repeatedly, have always concluded satisfactorily for everyone involved.

* Sherlock played a game of American football once, just once. Predictably it was a debacle. The misery began with the shoulder pads (were his arms really that skinny? was his head that tiny?) and continued on with an elbow to the neck (the referee pretended not to see), two knees to the groin, and the leering attentions of a very shifty-looking fullback.

* John owns a really rather stunning kimono, legacy of a brief visit to Torii Station, the US army base in Japan. The kimono is purple, with a scattering of embroidered cherry blossoms splashed along the hem and upper back, its obi light blue. When John hooks his thumbs in the obi and stands _just so_ Sherlock thinks he looks like a warlord. Depending on their moods, this can end up resulting in good things.

* Sherlock enjoys donating blood. This has little to do with altruism and a lot to do with a fascination for large needles, small machines, and his own bodily fluids. To be honest, the nurses at the blood bank are a little unnerved by how avidly he watches when they slip the needle into his vein, and on more than one occasion have had to tell him that _no_ they can't legally remove an extra pint and let him take it home for experimental purposes.

* John dislikes marshmallows. They taste all wrong, smell cloying, and the texture reminds him of things he dissected in medical school. As a matter of fact he hates marshmallows so much that, for awhile, they used them as tiny Keep Away signs around the flat. Don't want John to look in the butter dish? Perch a marshmallow on its lid. Spilled poison by the fridge but have to dash to the chemist for a neutralizing agent? Cordon off the area with marshmallows. This system worked well until Sherlock discovered he loves marshmallows. When he made himself sick going through three bags in two days, John stopped buying them.

* Sherlock has had to improvise extensively in his line of work, never more so than when it comes to fighting and defense. He's grappled with miscreants in alleys, under bridges, on the banks of the Thames, and once in the back room of a bakery that specialized in "naughty" cakes. He has defended himself with pie tins, placards, stones, sticks, and bricks, but probably the oddest armaments he's ever taken up to bring lawbreakers low are a giant wooden clog and a snare drum.

* John answers direct questions about the war, but doesn't usually offer information, which is why Sherlock was caught by surprise after opening a small box in John's dresser drawer. He'd needed beige thread and an eye patch, so of course he was digging through John's bedroom hoping to find either one. Spying a small unassuming box he thought might be a sewing kit, Sherlock instead found inside two Conspicuous Gallantry Crosses and a Military Cross. When John came home that night, Sherlock held him awhile, then kissed his forehead gently three times.

* Sherlock loves piggyback rides. The detective's fondness results from spending the summer of his fifth year being carried around on Mycroft's back, quite literally over the river and through the woods. When Sherlock thinks of childhood (and he generally avoids it), this is one of the few things he remembers warmly. (Two people on the planet know any of this and Sherlock has let both know he would feed them to the skull if they ever told anyone. _Anyone._ Ever. So.)

* John is a lot stronger than he looks, a fact he feels no pressing need to prove, yet a truth he does wish were a little more widely known. All this is by way of saying that if Sherlock ever wanted a piggyback ride or two some summer day, John Watson would be more than happy to oblige. Offer good indefinitely.

* Sherlock has a tendency to overdo, well, pretty much everything. He'll shout when whispering is enough, run when walking will do, and when celebrating his and John's first month together, the best gift Sherlock could think of to give his lover were the initials JW carved into his own pale chest with a scalpel—right over his heart.

* With all of his heart John believes in healing, in doing no harm. Yet, as disturbing as he found Sherlock's bloody anniversary gift to be, five years on he sometimes looks at the faint scar it left behind and feels his heart beat a little faster.

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We're at 48 of 312. Thank you to Spike for Mrs. Patrick as well as the snare drum and wooden shoe defense, EzzBomb2010 for the piggyback idea, hillshollow for those hidden military medals, and Ella for the marshmallows. Anything _you'd_ like to see here?_


	5. Chapter 5

* John is a better cook than Sherlock (of course), a finer writer (no contest), and can apply eye makeup far more flawlessly (what now?). Of these skills the only one Sherlock covets is the last. Oddly they've had four cases in the last eighteen months requiring one, the other, or both of them to dress in drag and the fact that John's eyeliner and mascara _always_ look better irks Sherlock no end.

* Okay, Sherlock likes dressing up, if you must know. Yes, yes, in suits and fabulous coats to be sure, but anything dramatic will do. If cracking a case required a cape, high boots, and a garnet ring with a secret chamber hiding a deadly poison he would be absolutely in his element. And as long as we're being frank, why do you think he even took those four silly cases—all of which turned out to be tiresome domestics? It was for the heels, honey, the heels, the wigs, and far more jewelry than was strictly necessary.

* We can hear your brain buzzing with this so we'll just get it over with now: The reason John can apply makeup so expertly is due to a great deal of devotion to the art one summer when he had a lot of time on his hands, Harry was away at some song camp (but her makeup was not), and he was crushing hard on the whole glam rock thing, as we've said before. What we didn't say before is that after a great deal of experimentation he finally settling on a look that pretty much made him the love child of Alice Cooper and David Bowie. To this day he can't tell you if that was good or bad.

* Sherlock's hands get cold much more quickly than the rest of him, so when a brown-out left ten blocks of Baker Street without heat for several hours one winter morning, to stay warm the boys decided to linger in bed reading. After making a quick trip downstairs for supplies (a forensics textbook, the Sunday paper, custard creams), Sherlock came back to bed wearing his black leather gloves, and nothing else. As a result, John's original plans for the morning were quickly and vigorously abandoned, and he made damn sure Sherlock's were too.

* John's tongue is quite the active little thing. When listening intently he'll lick the corners of his mouth with it. When thinking, he'll often touch his top lip with it, then run his bottom teeth over the place his tongue just touched. He will also trap his tongue between his lips when he's listening _and_ thinking and on more than one occasion this has inspired Sherlock to swoop forward and try to bite it. This often leads to other things, which is one reason John's tongue? It's quite the active little thing.

* Sherlock rejects exercise for exercise's sake, so the only workouts he gets are when he's literally on the run for a case. However, when days stretch into weeks between those cases John tries to get the detective out for a walk, just to keep muscles in trim. Sherlock just huffs at him impatiently and pretends John isn't there. "You won't always be able to run after criminals you know, how will you stay fit when you're old?" The answer is obvious to Sherlock. "I won't. I'll get fat." It's not John's imagination that in the detective's tone there is a wistful longing for that day.

* John likes spiders. Everyone thinks Sherlock's the eccentric one with his skull and the beakers and flasks everywhere, but they don't know John used to raise tarantulas when he was a kid. Okay, well he raised a half dozen over one school break—five red knees and a cobalt blue (his favorite). He's only just recently realized that Sherlock reminds him very much of tarantulas. Both can go a long time on little food, they don't necessarily want to be touched (but will let you), and they are drop dead gorgeous. Sherlock, however, is much more inclined to bite.

* Sherlock sometimes lisps when he's drunk, high, or tired, but in truth that lisp is never far away. It may bleed through when he's intent on something, in those precious seconds before sleep, or when he laughs while talking. John knows this and will sometimes trigger the lisp by asking trivial questions when a complex experiment has Sherlock so distracted he's talking to himself. Or he'll do his best to provoke the detective into tickling him so that he can, you know, tickle back—the resulting shrieks of _thtop thtop_ are well worth Sherlock's sometimes-stroppy mood later.

* John knows it's not his imagination. As a matter of fact, he can make an exhaustive list if pressed and, well, he has. A few highlights: He attempted to lose his virginity on _that_ day and twenty years on still can't talk about the resulting debacle. He broke his little toe on _that_ day after trying out for the college track team. He made a silly, non-threatening joke to an airport security officer on _that_ day and as a result was questioned about terrorist affiliations for three hours. Finally, just about every fight he's ever had with Sherlock has happened on that day. It's a plain fact: John never could get the hang of Thursdays.

* By the way, Sherlock _lets_ himself be provoked to tickle John, despite what the doctor thinks. Because John? Sweet John—all dead-serious marksman's aim, sturdy jumpers, and healer's grace—_giggles_ when tickled. Sherlock so cherishes that rare sound that he hopes, should he ever go deaf (an affliction common to many of the males in his family), that John's giggle is the last thing he hears.

* A simple silver wedding band is tucked away in a small bag which in turn is tucked away at the back of John's dresser. The ring belonged to John's grandfather Ideal Watson (whose siblings were Story, Comfort, and Rome). Before he passed he gave it to John, saying, "You'll marry this year, I can feel it." While grandpa Ideal had been wrong about that, he hadn't been wrong about John's need to unite his life with another. The heavy silver ring lays warm in John's palm many nights lately. Soon. He'll ask him soon.

* A quiet genius Sherlock is not. His finely-honed bluster, however, is designed to do two things: Underscore the sheer magnificence of his brain, while hopefully diverting the casual observer from realizing that without that brain he's nothing more than a skinny man with a funny face and a bad habit of saying arrogant things to strangers. That's why, when John finally does ask him, it is this persistent insecurity speaking when Sherlock says no. But that's all right. John's not done asking. The same as he's not yet done trying to heal the wounds left by a lifetime of loneliness and pain. They'll get there. John's got faith enough for two.

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Here we are at 62 of 312. Thank you to Nessa Atalanta for reminding me of the lisp; thanks Britters for the makeup suggestion; and thank you Pikeru's Angel who suggested John, like Arthur Dent in Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, just can't get the hang of Thursdays._


	6. Chapter 6

* Sherlock is a veritable festival of signature mannerism. Most people, if they think of it at all, think his gestures are affectation, dramatic punctuation for his dramatic pontificating. Yet everything—from steepled fingers tucked beneath his chin, to holding his hand out over a crime scene—is genuine, an outward manifestation of a inward process. When he spins around a room with great coat flying, or cants his head to the side as if listening to dead men telling tales, he's stirring up a place, smelling, tasting, listening, seeing. Sherlock's brain isn't just housed in his head, it's all of him, his entire body, every square inch.

* John had an identical twin brother, who regrettably lived for only one hour after birth. His mother named her lost son Raphael, after the archangel. John doesn't think of his brother often—usually during his birthday, though not always—but when he thinks of him lately he always wonders if Rafe would have liked Sherlock. Then he feels a pang of jealousy, so help him, and he's really not sure why.

* Sherlock's body is a constellation of faint moles and freckles. There's the small splash of moles scattered over his jaw and neck. Along the backs of both shoulders he wears a pale mantle of faint freckles. On the bottom of his left foot there is a lone, dark mole, almost dead center. And roughly every three years or so—when he gets a sunburn—exactly twelve freckles briefly appear across the bridge of his nose. The marks John likes the most, however, are the seven tiny freckles that go up the left side of Sherlock's body, from his calf to just under his arm, a nearly-straight line running the length of him, one just made for fingers or tongues.

* John has a tendency to swear a blue streak unexpectedly and with little prompting. Once he dropped two f-bombs, a shit, and a god damn it when he noticed a really good sale at Tesco's. There was also the time a uni student interviewed him about his blog and they'd gotten diverted talking about music and John had said eight unprintable words—the student counted—in merely discussing his favorite songs. Sherlock is a little gleeful that he still can't figure out what's behind this tendency at all.

* Sherlock is afraid of heights. You wouldn't know it, what with the running he does up and down fire escapes, the peering over roof edges, and the general flailing disregard he has for the proximity of the ground in reference to his person. But that's exactly the point. Dashing across rooftops or clattering over rickety bridges makes Sherlock afraid. And fear is never, ever boring.

* John is not shy about nudity. There's something about him that makes you think he would be, yet there's very little bashfulness in John Watson. As a matter of fact, he once stripped bare in front of half his graduating class when a party went south and two rotten eggs meant for someone else hit him square in the chest and groin. Irked after his very public strip tease his girlfriend very publically dumped him, and John ended up going home for the night with a boy named Ben.

* Sherlock is worried that the bees are dying. It's not a vague, tut-tut kind of worry, it's an active, buzzing sort of fretting that tugs at his brain at odd moments, making him stop suddenly to write down ideas for bee-related experiments. As a matter of fact Sherlock is in contact with eighteen entomologists around the world and shares his thoughts on this topic regularly and in return is kept apprised of the latest research. There will be bees. _There must be bees._

* John is Sherlock's polar opposite when it comes to waiting: John is a master at it. He's always been patient, but the army and then his deployment—war is a lot of hurry up and wait—took a rough talent and converted it to a skill. John can sit almost perfectly still for an hour. He can remain silent for three times that long, even when surrounded by chatter. He is patient. Vigilant. But mostly patient. Which explains a lot about his continued tenancy at 221B, actually.

* Sherlock met the queen once, and as you might imagine, that didn't go well. He didn't do anything outright rude, he does have a vague sketching of social mores he carries around in his head, but let's just say he was not exactly _impressed._ Mycroft didn't even bother to find out _why_ his little brother felt the need to test the queen's observational acuity with a pointed question about her footman, but he did. The queen, of course, was beyond courteous. Big brother, however, was not amused.

* John lost his virginity at nineteen years old, which at the time felt like a thousand, and which is why he rushed into it and enjoyed an epic cluster-fuck of such proportions he still blushes thinking about it. In his practice as a doctor he's since counseled dozens of teens on the wisdom of waiting (treating aches and pains you can't see is about fifty percent of what a doctor does, it seems), and isn't shy about sharing his experience to help them understand why waiting can be a good thing. Near as he can tell it's worked, every time.

* After a particularly physical case, when he and John were honest-to-god as good as drunk from the adrenaline, Sherlock put on one of the doctor's larger jumpers and walked around their bedroom "channeling John." After a few aborted attempts he got the smaller man's stride, the twist and tilt of his head, and that thing he does with his mouth. For his pains Sherlock also got a lump in his throat, a pain in his heart, and an overwhelming desire to hold John and to hold him and to hold him…

* After that particularly physical case, when they were as good as drunk and playing around in the bedroom, John put on Sherlock's great coat, but instead of swanning around the room imitating the detective's more imperious behaviors—as probably anyone else would have done, honestly—he imitated something else entirely. John looked at Sherlock the way Sherlock looks at John. It was a good twenty minutes before Sherlock could make himself let John go.

_

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Thank you to stupid_drawings for the moles and freckles in secret places suggestion; thank you CyberButterfly for the idea that Sherlock's afraid of (and loves) heights; thank you to Britters for letting me know that Sherlock's worried about the bees; and thanks to Caroline One for suggesting I use Martin Freeman's tendency to swear a blue streak for John. (P.S. We're now at 74 of 312!)_


	7. Chapter 7

* John didn't ask Sherlock until they'd already been together nearly a year. Even then he felt shy about it. Sort of awkward. Maybe even a little perverse. (Did he realize who he was talking to?) But when John finally told Sherlock that he, um, really liked the idea of being picked up—you know, detective-y arms wrapping around him and _lifting_—things ended so well (not necessarily for the kitchen table, which still wobbles) that he wondered why he hadn't said something sooner.

* When speaking of perverse, one naturally thinks of Sherlock. For good reason. Here is a man who, for various experiments _this month alone_ has collected urine from two drunks and the neighbor's infant; drawn blood from a university student who wanted quick cash; squeezed half a dozen human eyeballs until a sort of juice came out; and got excited when he found fresh vomit in an alley near 221B. Don't even ask about the decomposed herring and live cockroaches. Please, don't.

* You can set your watch by John's bedtime. Except when he and Sherlock are on a case or John's doing swing shift locum work, the good doctor aims to get his body in bed by 11:20 every night. When he does, he sleeps a solid eight hours, has good dreams when he's not having the bad, and generally wakes refreshed. Generally. Sometimes there are _extenuating bloody circumstances _with frigid size ten feet.

* Sherlock often stays up until all hours doing experiments, reading forensics journals, or working on his website. Usually he's so engrossed he doesn't notice that the flat's heaters—all on timers—have shut off. Not, at any rate, until his teeth are chattering so hard he accidentally squirts too much blood over a fungal culture, or drips putrefied lettuce down his leg again. That's usually when he calls it a night and crawls into bed with his own Army-issue human blast furnace. The fact that John yells, "My _god_ your fucking feet, god _damn_ it Sherlock," every single time is just icing on the cake.

* John's blue and white striped jumper is a bit big on him because it used to belong to his grandfather, and granddad Ideal was thirty pounds heavier and three inches taller than John. The other reason the jumper is too big is that Sherlock has put it on times past counting by now. He wears it when he's sick. When John's sick. When John's away. When he's away. When they fight. When they don't fight. Pretty soon John's just going to give that jumper up as a lost cause.

* Sherlock can simulate a raging queen surprisingly well. John recently came by this knowledge honestly when, to gather evidence for a case, they posed as _blazingly_ gay photographers at a beauty pageant fundraiser (don't ask). At one point Sherlock waved a thin hand gaudy with silver rings at John and requested a flash. John asked "The hot shoe or the speedlight?" and Sherlock had screwed his face into a fluffy moue of distaste and said "Oh bitch, please."

* Fortunately John is a better actor than he anticipated. That beauty pageant case was successfully closed not in small part because John morphed his balls-to-the-wall hysterics into a pretend choking fit, which in turn brought the theoretically deaf suspect running, who then in turn admitted she had embezzled over one million euro from the pageant funds. Sherlock was so pleased with John at the end of the night that, at the doctor's request, the detective left all the jewelry on when they went to bed—and nothing else.

* Until he was about fourteen Sherlock craved Mycroft's attention and praise. After that he generally mocked his brother if the elder man offered either. Then came John, who lavished him with both from the moment they met. Somehow Sherlock wants to apologize to Mycroft but he hasn't, and he's pretty sure he won't. Not for awhile. Not yet.

* Though he's two years younger, John has always been taller than his sister, heavier than she is, and physically stronger to boot. These facts never stopped Harry from beating her brother up through most of their youth. That's because John lacked then—and is in short supply of now—the one thing Harry has always possessed in spades: Self-righteous meanness.

* Sherlock's sartorial elegance is only skin deep. Which is to say that while his suits and crisp shirts are flawless and fit like a second skin, and while his great coat may very well deserve its own fan club, the items underneath are, shall we say, not all that. Many of Sherlock's under clothes are worn, old, and still have his name written inside, legacy of his public school days.

* John was dead once. He doesn't recommend it. Neither does he remember it, of course, but he knows every detail just the same. Mia told him about the blood they couldn't stop, a vibrant torrent that surged to each edge of the metal operating table. Rémy told him how the bullet had torn his flesh away from his bones, leaving behind an open wound so big a man's palm could not cover it. Prashta told him about the rolling cluster of seizures that shook him just before he flatlined. And JJ told him over beers one night that no one, not one person in that room that hot and dusty afternoon, thought he would make it back.

* Sherlock knows how to fake grief. He's manufactured tears when questioning a suspect, or choked on pretend anguish the better to encourage a hesitant witness. He used to find the effort a touch difficult until he let his stupid, _stupid_ curiosity get the better of him. John hadn't asked him to come to the pub that night, but Sherlock invited himself anyway, wanting to meet John's old army friend. When the doctor got caught up talking with a medical school chum by the dart board, Sherlock saw his chance and interrogated JJ about the day John was shot. Unfortunately the ex-soldier was a natural story-teller, with a photographic memory to boot. Now all it takes is one second and one thought for Sherlock's eyes to flood with tears: What if John hadn't come back? _What if?_

_

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We're at 86 of 312, this is coming along faster than I thought. Please share your ideas about John & Sherlock for Minutiae! And thank you to those who already have: Arista Holmes for the idea of Sherlock's frozen feet, hopefully mention of his tootsies pleases Run For Your Sanity, too. And thanks to __Zitronenbonbon for the idea that Sherlock (like BC) still owns under clothes from his public school days._


	8. Chapter 8

* Sherlock is a shade over 184 centimeters tall. A rather perfect height for him, as far as John is concerned. However, the good doctor's willowy sweetheart wasn't always quite so lissome. Until he was twenty-eight Sherlock was a full five centimeters shorter than he is now. It really just figures that if some man somewhere was going to go and have a very rare growth spurt in his late 20s, it would be Sherlock.

* John has a rare and surprisingly useful skill. He can speak clearly while brushing his teeth. Critical information he has relayed at such times include: "Yes, Mrs. Hudson has the skull and will give it back when you fix the wallpaper." "No, I don't know where your Egyptian dung beetles went." "Yes, when I think, I _do_ hear the grinding of poorly-oiled gears thank you for asking." "No, I'm not mad." "Yes, I love you, anyway." Sherlock has tried this brushing-and-talking lark but after the third attempt John got tired of cleaning spit off everything and told him to just quit it.

* Sherlock loves living with a doctor. First, John knows the technical names for everything related to the human body. He can also answer interesting medical questions, from the simple (what's the normal temperature range for human blood?) to the obscure (if a man aspirated an unknown quantity of olive oil every day for thirteen years, what might be the state of his lungs?). Yet possibly the journals are the best part of living with a doctor. One of the few things Harry does for her brother is to keep up his subscriptions to several medical periodicals. Why just last week there was an article in the _British Medical Journal_ with eight excellent colour photos detailing exactly how untreated, drug-resistant TB eats out part of the human brain. Fascinating.

* Speaking of _fascinating,_ John the science fiction geek has not had any luck getting Sherlock to watch even one episode of _Star Trek—_any iteration whatsoever. He knows that Sherlock's being mule-stubborn about it for a good reason (he's been compared to a Vulcan times past counting since he was seventeen), but John also has a secret suspicion that Sherlock knows if he spent _any_ time getting to know a certain pointy-eared alien he would probably crush so hard the skull might get jealous.

* Sherlock owns a white folding cane, the kind used by the visually impaired. Several times a year he steps out of 221B, dons a pair of black sunglasses, and with eyes closed, walks London for the next three hours, doing four things: Touching (storefronts, gates, the soft arms of old women who offer help); listening (the thick sound of tires on pavement, sirens, a man's sigh); smells (rubbish, rain, a musky cologne); and sometimes tastes (the air, street food, and one time a light post). Acutely aware that he relies heavily on sight for his deductions, Sherlock feels this is the least he can do to help keep the other senses keen.

* John has four favorite scents: Carnations (they smell…clean), bacon (self-evident), coffee (yes coffee, not tea), and Sherlock. When pressed to describe what a Sherlock smells like, John's answer depends on the day you ask. If Sherlock is without a case he smells of rosin and tea, gunpowder and discontent. If he's busy, he smells of lightly starched shirts, shampoo, and—this will sound weird—happy sweat. John can't describe it better than that, except to add that that smell can leave him feeling as good as three kisses, two beers, or one orgasm.

* Sherlock has twenty-four favorite scents: gosling fluff (Mycroft once let him hold a baby goose when he was seven), gum arabic, acetic acid, John's hair, sulphur, London, propane, honey, John's neck, chloroform, unbuttered toast, naphthalene, John's breath, rubbing alcohol, any kind of mint, starch, a spot under John's left arm, plain soap, hydrofluoric acid, vanilla, chlorophyll, petrol, geosmin, and um, right between John's legs.

* Speaking of scent, if he's going to bed alone, John often wears one of Sherlock's t-shirts, but only if the detective's worn it a few times already. Like trying to explain the bright colours of a sunset, John can't adequately describe what Sherlock's clothes smell like except perhaps…peace, or home, or calm. That Sherlock is often none of those things doesn't matter, they _are_ John, when surrounded by Sherlock's scent. He doesn't think about this much anymore, but John knows that if Sherlock left him tomorrow, the only thing he'd ask for in the breakup would be all of Sherlock's dirty laundry.

* Sherlock has always liked Lestrade, though of course he's never told him that. Before he knew John, Lestrade was the most humane human the detective had ever met, and the one Sherlock came closest to trusting. Strangely enough Sherlock never noticed that the DI is "smoking hot" until John described him that way to a single female friend. It annoys Sherlock no end that now every time he looks at Lestrade he sees exactly what John meant.

* John is tired of Sherlock's old under things. They are tattered, torn, or a size too small (see above, _growth spurt)._ So John went online and ordered under clothes for his lover. The funny thing is, after that first innocent click? Well the good doctor went a little crazy. Along with a brace of cotton boxer-briefs (the best of both worlds, really), John also bought Sherlock a half dozen form-fitting silk boxers in dark purple or black, eight pairs of snug briefs in jewel tones, and a cheeky, scanty black item that laces up the front, thankyouverymuch.

* Sherlock isn't really the jealous type. You'd think he would be, hell even _he_ thought he would be once the doctor and he became a couple. But here's the thing about being loved by John Watson: It settles you. It makes you calmer; more secure, not less. When John says, "I love you," those words reach into the marrow of Sherlock's long bones, wrap around his heart, flood his body with peace and certainty. How could he be jealous of this man who clearly wants no other man?

* John's never been the jealous type, always believing jealousy the exact opposite of love. So it surprises him that he's sometimes wildly jealous about Sherlock. Because here's the thing: John wants very little. A warm house, hot tea, some good telly, and his lover. But Sherlock? There are so many things he wants: Crimes to solve. Dead bodies to study. Experiments to conduct. A city to roam. With all that rushing in and filling his senses, how can Sherlock Holmes possibly want him, a short doctor with a slow brain?

** _Short just means I can fold my body around you better, fill myself up with you. And it's true your brain can't do what mine can, but it knows a thousand things mine doesn't, from how to stop a child's crying to how to bring peace to one man's restless soul. When you tell me I'm good, I believe it—and want to give _you _reasons to keep believing it, too. More than corpses or crime or dark city streets I need you. How do I make you feel that, right down into your good and brave bones?__ — SH_

_

* * *

This brings us up to 98—99 if you count Sherlock's addition (John does, but we won't). Thank you stillcentre for your idea of Sherlock walking around London with a white folding cane. Thank you Damnednforsaken for requesting that John wear one of Sherlock's shirts. Thank you to Marie for the idea of the black and aubergine under things, and to Sarah Murphy for the idea that John can brush his teeth and talk at the same time. And thank you Hillshollow for eleventy-billion ideas related to John's doctorin', specifically the medical journal idea here. It's brilliantly gross and therefore very Sherlock, so I'm indebted._


	9. Chapter 9

* John isn't a fan of chocolate-covered coffee beans. Anymore. He _was,_ right after a patient gave him an entire kilo for Christmas. John liked them then. A lot. They gave him energy. A lot. He could keep up with Sherlock. All the time. And he didn't need to sleep. Hardly at all. Then he had a twitch in his right eye. 24/7. And was so tightly strung Sherlock could have played a sonata. On his nerves. By the time John'd gone four days on eleven hours sleep, had repapered the bathroom twice, and tried, in his sleep, to shag Sherlock three times, John decided to give Anderson the rest of those coffee beans.

* Sherlock's as physically graceful as a dancer. _Now._ Yet at fifteen, when a growth spurt turned his body into an unruly mob of spindly arms and legs, he was forever tripping over his feet or rapping knuckles into other people's faces each time he gestured. No one then and no one now—except for John—knows that to combat this ferocious lack of grace Sherlock danced. For six solid months, with himself, alone, in his room. Yes, that sounds sad et cetera et cetera but the point is it worked, didn't it?

* A man named John is bound to be partial to solid, old-fashioned names and John H. Watson is no exception. As matter of fact if you're a bit starved for entertainment, ask the good doctor what he thinks of celebs naming their children Apple, Lark Song, or Moxie CrimeFighter. Be prepared to hide your smile and nod quite a bit because his answer will be long, involve a certain degree of swearing, and come with surprising hand gestures.

* Sherlock would not have expressed an opinion unless asked, you understand. But if John was going to trot out mythical children, that the two of them had mythically had, and all of whom required _mythical_ names, then he really shouldn't have been upset when Sherlock—after thinking about it for a few days—told him the names he favored included John, Achlys, Dragon, and Daedalus.

* John can sort of lucid dream. He succeeds once for every ten attempts, but that's usually good enough. Before he and Sherlock got together the good doctor spent more time than he will ever admit to (_ever)_ trying to get dream Sherlock into his bed. Instead they usually ended up on a submarine, riding a carousel, or running down a dark alley, for heaven's sake. The one time John succeeded in getting his flatmate horizontal and naked Sherlock was so damned bossy you just would not believe.

* While it's true that Sherlock doesn't envy his brother's power, and he doesn't give a fig that Mycroft is smarter than he is, and he's not jealous of his brother's money, better memory, or legion of devoted underlings (well maybe those, a little), it would be a bald-faced lie to say that Sherlock isn't wildly envious of one thing of Mycroft's. And that would be the nearly three entire centimeters of height he has on his little brother. _Damn him._

* John knows how to get Sherlock's attention when he wants it. He doesn't use the ploy often, as a matter of fact he's engaged this particular stratagem only three times in the last two years, but it has worked flawlessly each time. If John wants to head to the bedroom and find himself trailed closely by a tall man breathing heavy on his neck all he has to do is go shirtless…and wear his dog tags.

* When Sherlock is overwhelmed by incoming data, he counts. It happens unconsciously, immediately, and semi-rarely. The first time he saw John naked? He got to just past three before he could act. The first time he saw a dead body? He counted to eleven before deductions began blazing like fire in his head. The first time John said "I love you"? Heck. Sherlock is still counting.

* John is quite possibly in love twice. Once with Sherlock. Of course. Duh. And the second time? With his own dressing gown. Yes, his dressing gown. His tattered, threadbare, what-color-is-that? I-don't-care-it-keeps-me-warm dressing gown. It's emotion-based, he knows it is, because actually the dressing gown isn't _that_ warm and it's always been an ugly pea-green and yet for every year it moves through life with him John is that little bit more in love with it. Fortunately Sherlock doesn't care. And even if he did (but he _doesn't)_ he knows how to put that bit of cloth in its place. Who do you think gets stuck on the wet spot?

* Ask Sherlock what color his eyes are and he'll tell you blue. Then he'll immediately walk away because he knows, he absolutely _knows_ that the only reason you asked is because you find his peepers intriguing and you think they're grey but any idiot with, well, eyes can see that they're blue. Sherlock has seen grey eyes (once) and his are _not_ so just quit it already.

* John has a photo of Sherlock as a toddler (contraband courtesy of Mycroft). In the photo Sherlock is no more then two, decked out in a white turtleneck, braces, and a great deal of surprisingly blond hair. The photo's most striking feature is the joy on Sherlock's round baby face. There is no guile there, no doubt or irascibility, no _angles_ for god's sake. Frankly, if John's main purpose in life is to light the man's face with echoes of that child's joy then that's purpose enough.

* There's a photograph Sherlock found in John's wardrobe awhile back of John as a toddler. He's perhaps three, maybe wearing a tie, and sports a mop of straight strawberry blond hair. The part that pleases Sherlock is that the expression on the child's face is already so…John. It's a bit serious, sort of firm, definitely strong. It's a little exasperated, too, but he's about to smile, almost there, getting close. When a case has Sherlock uncertain to the point of distraction, he'll take inspiration from the remembered gaze of that little boy, who even at three was already so sure.

_

* * *

Irrlich thank you for the coffee bean idea. Thank you Caroline One for the idea of bossy dream!Sherlock, and Marie for the idea that Sherlock worked on being physically graceful. Thank you to __zephyrrdragon who suggested baby photos and then linked to the now-much seen image of BC__ and MF as little boys (search for "benny and martin adorable cumberbatched" and it's the first link). I didn't know how this chapter was going to end until you did that! __P.S. Yes, John's dressing gown is the same one Arthur Dent wears in Hitchhiker's. I just couldn't resist._


	10. Chapter 10

* Sherlock swallowed a gem stone once. It was a rare three carat Argyle pink diamond, uncut and twice as big as his pinkie nail. He had thieved it from a thief in service to a client but not himself being the best thief in the world Sherlock had, you know, accidentally alerted the thief to his theft. The thief had pursued him and when push literally came to shove the not-so-good thief but excellent consulting detective did the first thing he could think of to ensure the safety of the diamond: He put it in his mouth and swallowed it. We will not, emphatically _not not not_ say that that case ended well—_cough—_but we will say the client was given only the details they needed and that they were happy with the end results—_cough._

* John knows how you feel about his jumpers, seriously he does. And he agrees with you. He has too many of them. Most are too big. And none particularly flatter him. Yet what can he do? His Granny Annie is 94 years old and is kept alive by two things: Her addiction to American reality television and knitting. She sends John at least two jumpers a year and he dutifully wears every one. But between you and me? Who on earth do you think leaves those jumpers all over the flat hoping a distracted Sherlock will use them in, on, or under a leaking, oozing, or hazardous experiment?

* Sherlock has no problem donning costumes for a case. He's prowled London's streets in women's clothes, bondage gear, and a poor man's rags. One of his favorite ensembles, however, was one he created for a case that climaxed at a Victorian-themed costume ball. What flight of fancy took him he'll never know but he decked himself out in a quaint old deerstalker cap, a Meerschaum pipe, and rather smashing caped overcoat. The best part of that case—aside from solving it in less than fourteen hours with only two obscure clues and an old-fashioned magnifying glass—had been John's vigorous interest in removing the silly outfit afterward.

* Never tell John Watson he's brave. He hates the word. It means to show outstanding courage, to be fearless, gallant, dauntless. Yet John insists he's none of those things. He will admit to being just this: responsible. He will always meet his obligations, whether those include holding back an angry bully, holding on to your life-changing secret, or holding your hand as you die on a battlefield. There is nothing brave about these things he insists. It's what people do. It's what people _should_ do.

* Sherlock: Wraith-thin? Check. Well-dressed? Check. Skin of alabaster and ivory? Um, yeah. So you can see where they get their _vampire_ ideas, the little fangirls, but frankly it just gets old after awhile. They ask Sherlock for his autograph, his blood, they ask him to bite their thin little underaged necks. One night it got so bad that he actually went home and stared at his teeth in the mirror just to make sure…well he's not sure what he was looking for so just forget it, okay? Right. Fine. Moving on.

* Like many, John's partial to a good museum on a bad day. Whether it's the British, the Tate, the Wallace Collection or any one of dozens of other warm spots to get dry and get a little culture, he's spent many hours roaming, admiring, having a cuppa, and feeling virtuous. However, John remains irked that getting his sweetheart to share this sensibility pretty much requires a typhoon, a grappling hook, and a monumental fit of pique.

* Sherlock will willingly follow John into any museum you name. _If_ it's raining, _and_ they're both wet, _and_ John's cranky about being wet. Outside those exact parameters Sherlock has never willingly stepped into a museum in his life. So really John should have realized something was awry when they walked past the Gaelbreath on a sunny day last week and Sherlock said, "Let's go in." It wasn't until the good doctor had to hunt the detective down—and found him talking to a curator about a famous (and still faintly visible) blood spatter pattern (connected to a 100 year old murder) on the plaster of one museum wall that John realized Sherlock's gruesome ulterior motive.

* John is serious about socks. And the doctor's standards vis a vis this sartorial orphan are high. He roundly shuns nylon. Eschews silk. Will not even whisper spandex. And while cotton will do if pressed, the only proper material for a good pair of socks is, was, and always has been soft, resilient lambswool. His favorite pair are, of course, his Watson tartans in blue-green-yellow; his second favorite are the similarly-patterened ones he has in a Holmes tartan.

* Sherlock shaved his head nearly to the scalp for a case once (something to do with pretending to have lice or passing himself off as an American marine, honestly John was never sure). What _Sherlock_ was sure of was that his lover was emphatically not going to like it, and so he didn't warn John beforehand. While Sherlock's deduction was correct, both men came to terms with the temporary loss of dark curls by figuring out creative ways to enjoy Sherlock's new style. Let's just say that there are sensitive places where one should _not_ rub a buzz cut, but there are other places—_there, just there, oh god!—_where it feels quite fine.

* Speaking of sex, John will absolutely not admit this even if you catch him in the actual act of _doing_ it, but he's allowed his fingernails to grow a little longer than usual for one reason and one reason only: because Sherlock likes it when John scratches him at the moment of truth. Again, John will deny this until the end of time even if you strip Sherlock bare, point and say "There? How about there?" Under those circumstances John will feign complete blindness.

* Sherlock is often unnervingly correct about his first impressions. Sometimes, however, he's embarrassingly wrong. About John he was both. War veteran, psychosomatic limp, drunken sibling yes, yes, yes, all correct. But the idea that the smaller man would be easy to dominate, that he would be uncomplicated, undemanding, uninteresting and above all, easy to ignore—oh god Sherlock has never been more wrong about anyone in his life and never been happier to have been so ridiculously, completely, and utterly blind.

* John doesn't put much store by first impressions because he's got enough experience to know they're wrong exactly as often as they're right. So, though he can tell you what his first impressions were of Sherlock, using words like effusive, cocky, and drop-dead gorgeous, he'll also tell you he reserved real judgment until he got to know the man. Now the words he'll use if asked for his impressions of Sherlock include effusive, very cocky, no-really-honest-to-god-drop-dead gorgeous, remarkable, kind, fragile, sexy, idiotic, crazy, brilliant, amazing, and perfect.

_

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We're now at 122 of 312. Thank you to __Human630496234 for the idea of Sherlock, the deerstalker, the pipe, et cetera__. And thank you FeyWinds for the giggle-worthy vampire suggestion, and to lmusic for the idea of writing about first impressions and about Sherlock's curls (or lack of them). Zephyrrdragon, you helped me explain why John wears all those darn jumpers, thank you Loann for the socks and fingernails prompt, and thanks to Caroline Two who wrote in one of her stories that John hates being called brave; I stole that from you fair and square, my dear._


	11. Chapter 11

* If pressed, John will say he doesn't begrudge Sherlock a single one of his abilities. John Watson is a liar. Blame his ten thumbs. Because, so help him, the good doctor can't touch type to save his own life, and even staring myopically at the keys he'll eek out no more than twenty words a minute. But the great detective? Oh, he flies along at a blazing 103 words (Sherlock: _never_ not up for testing something to precise quantification). So anyway, it takes John hours to complete a blog post and Sherlock mere minutes to leave a blistering 500 word critique in the comments.

* Actually, Sherlock loves John's slow typing. First, it makes him a more meticulous writer (though he doeshave an annoying habit of focusing on irrelevant detail). Second, his slow hunt-and-peck, sustained over several hours, produces a meditative white noise Sherlock finds conducive to deep thought or light dozing. Third, and most of all, Sherlock loves the way John uses his tongue—shoved out the side of his mouth and wiggling—to aid him through the tough bits (locating Z, 6 and the sign, usually).

* For John, hope springs eternal that he'll find a cuisine Sherlock will love. He's dragged the man to Islington for Vietnamese, Canary Wharf to a fish place, and South Kensington for Caribbean fare. And that was just last week. However the only place Sherlock asks to return is a tiny French patisserie in Hampstead Heath that makes chocolate ganache tarts so rich just one can put a rugby ruffian into a sugar coma. Yet, after a case recently, John watched in horrified fascination as Sherlock ate four. The good doctor had sympathetic stomach pains the entire rest of the day.

* At any one time Sherlock's body has at least a dozen nicks, cuts, or burns in various stages of healing. Though meticulous with actual experiments, he's fairly blasé about the toll of those experiments on his body. As a matter of fact, his indifference to his own personal safety has led to singed hair (including part of an eyebrow once), slicing a thumbnail down to the bloody quick, and once even spraining his wrist doing something with a riding crop, a small boat anchor, and saltpeter (John never did understand the details of that one).

* Speaking of riding crops and sex—*CoughWereWe?*—John will maintain he's not a fan. Here, too, John Watson is a liar. As a matter of fact, so acute did his interested become in this item (and Sherlock's profound reaction to it) that he sort of put himself through a personal little boot camp to learn how to wield it with grace, skill, and uh, very good results. But don't say anything to John because he'll lie about it right to your face and really, frankly, it's nobody else's business. Except a certain detective.

* Sherlock Holmes was a problem child. "Why?" was his favorite word from the age of three to eight. "How?" had a starring role in his vocabulary from ages nine to twelve. "No," was about all you got from him from thirteen to fifteen, and silence from sixteen to eighteen. By the time Sherlock was nineteen just about everyone stopped trying to communicate with him. He grimly returned the favor.

* John was not a problem child—except in one small way. He ran around like any kid, climbed trees like any kid, skinned his knees like any kid. But he didn't _cry_ like any kid. Since before he could remember John Watson's kept his mouth shut when he's in physical pain. There are tears, to be sure, but he's always wept in silence, a habit that's carried into adult life and he has no idea why.

* Sherlock has never bought flowers for anyone in his life. Or a card. Or candy. Or whatever else boring people do to boringly state their love. Instead Sherlock leaves John voicemail when he knows John can't answer his phone. The messages are never long, are sometimes oddly sweet ("I love you more than jam."), often graphically sexual (who should do what to whom, for how long, using what sex aid), or frequently take the form of a promise ("I really will learn where the tea cups get put away. And the jam.")

* John loves all of Sherlock's voicemail messages, he really does, but honestly his favorite has no words. That message (which he will never delete; _ever)_ is short but potent, consisting of nothing more than Sherlock breathing, then sighing, then moaning—his voice getting progressively deeper, rougher, and faster until it sounds for all the world as if he comes. Hard. John has made a point of never asking him if he did because the not knowing? Good lord the not knowing is the best part.

* Sherlock often treats eating as an inconvenient duty, done solely to provide fuel for the transport. Sweets, however, do focus his attention. John's watched the man devote thirty long seconds to eating one tiny Jaffa cake—nibbling first the chocolate, then licking the orange filling, finally eating the sponge. He does the same thing with jammie dodgers, custard cremes, and French Fancies. John once accused him of making love to his food; Sherlock told him to shut up, then proceeded to slowly tongue the whipped cream off John's frou-frou coffee drink.

* John's traveled the world, first as a student, then for a long while with the army. Travel agrees with him, suits his temperament. So a few months after he and Sherlock became a couple, he expected to enjoy a quick tip to Seville for a medical conference. Instead he was so powerfully homesick he couldn't, _wouldn't_ concentrate. During the four days he was away he texted Sherlock one hundred and fifty six times, called him twelve, and emailed him three one-thousand word missives. (And with his typing skills you know how long that took.) No more conferences. No. Just…no.

* Sherlock's never had reason to miss anyone. So the first time he and John were separated for a few days he didn't understand what was happening to him: The stomach pain; the tightness in his chest; the unrelenting tedium of the days despite an interesting case. He honestly thought he was coming down with some dramatic malady and started popping far too many of the vitamins John's always trying to get into him. It wasn't until his lover returned that Sherlock realized he'd experienced homesickness for the first time. John…John is his home now.

_

* * *

We're now up to 134 of 312. Thank you DaysOfStorm for suggesting I talk about John and Sherlock typing skills. And am I the only one noticing this batch had a lot to do with sweets and sex? Hm. Curious. (Also, for anyone reading Skullduggery, I'm continuing that story as soon as I return in a few days from a holiday in London. As in, you know—*flailing*—LONDON!)_


	12. Chapter 12

* Sherlock knows an absurd number of absurd things (retinal blood columns segment one hour after death; human ears and navels contain scent glands that respond to sexual stimulation) but he's ignorant of just as many, including the meaning of the words time-off, relax, and most emphatically and irritatingly _holiday._ When John literally forced him on one recently (_pushed_ him into the cab, _pulled_ him out at Heathrow) almost nothing at all went according to plan. Of course not. Oh god, no.

* John truly loves a good holiday. Some days he'll run from one site to the next like a happy headless chicken; others he's so lazy he practically transmutes into a cat. A small, blonde, dead-seeming cat. Yet this holiday had Oh Damn Hell Kill Me Now written all over it _the first hour_ when, in returning to the hotel after a solo walk, Sherlock was yelling into his mobile, "But _I am _in the lobby, where are you?" As smart as he so obviously is, it turned out the idiot detective was actually at another motel in the chain. Two miles south.

* Though John had tried to hide, then temporarily disable, then god damn _break_ his lover's mobile on the first night of the holiday, Sherlock not only found it and fixed it, he spent that night pacing from one end of the their very nice room to the other, desperately looking for a signal. "There could be a case John!" It didn't matter to Sherlock that they were currently near the toe of the Italian boot, no it did not. And John acknowledged that it really _didn't_ matter. Sherlock could probably solve crime confined to a bathysphere trolling the dead depths of the Marianas Trench. No, forget the probably. He so totally could.

* John is cuddly and sweet and sexy, yes yes, every one knows this. Yet he's not perfect, lord no. If you want to see one of his faults in sparkling action, cause the good doctor to miss a few meals. God does he get _cranky._ And kind of sweary. As in: "I spent all day with you in that weird little Misdeeds, Madness, and Misdemeanors museum didn't I? _Didn't I?_ Not one word of complaint, Sherlock, not one. So if you don't get your god damn coat on _right now_ and follow me to the god damn restaurant on the god damn corner _this minute,_ they'll be adding my gruesome deeds to one of those museum displays next because, so help me god, I'll have killed you so hard you'll be dead twice."

* Sherlock will tell you a little secret: It's _insanely_ fun to embarrass John in public. Admittedly it's hard to mortify a battle-hardened doctor whose been puked on, shot at, and strip-searched at Euro Disney, but oh god when he manages to get the blood rising in John's cheeks Sherlock almost literally feels faint. Their holiday in Italy was the first time the wicked detective realized that simulating an orgasm while they waited for their entrees would so inflame the doctor that he could have, quite possibly, run the entire village of Amantea with the beautiful heat from his blush alone.

* John doesn't know why he does this to himself. Sherlock can barely focus on food at home, so keeping him occupied in a restaurant crowded with "boring" "kleptomaniac" "adulterous" Italians…it was a plan damned from the start. And then the thing _before_ the food even came? Oh god, the moaning and the writhing and—well, all John can say is that he practically fell in love with the woman at the next table when she gave Sherlock that…death glare? murderous scowl? homicidal glower?…_and it shut him right the hell up no fooling oh my god._

* After the detective himself was shocked to silence, he soon shocked John by vigorously consuming an entire heaping plate of cacciatore. Only once the doctor tasted the fare did he understand. The chef had either lost her mind or known her patron's predilections because the saucy dish, which calls for the barest whisper of sugar, was so wildly cloying that John had to spit his half-chewed mouthful into a napkin. (However, the good doctor did store away for future use the knowledge that apparently Sherlock will eat almost any savory dish to which sweeteners have been added. Which is why, once they were home, sugar found its way into the milk, honey into the mushy peas, and molasses over the beans on toast.)

* John's going to maintain that he was innocent of any wrong-doing. Or that he was tricked. Or that—oh who is he kidding? He just flat out didn't care. After dinner that night they split a tiramisu that was so unreasonably delicious, fed to John by Sherlock in a manner that was so unrelentingly sexual, accompanied by toes against his crotch that were so blindingly prehensile, that John wasn't sure if he moaned four times or forty. What he was sure of was that the woman at the next table was, by this time, so miffed that she was about ready to stab them both to death with her little dessert spoon.

* As has been noted many, many, _many_ times, Sherlock is often very dense as super-geniuses go. So it wasn't until they were halfway through their trip and he'd forgotten his mobile in the motel a half dozen times, found himself repeatedly taking John by the hand and dragging him to look at something very, very _Italian,_ and had actually initiated the consumption of not only food but also wine, bread and pastries, that Sherlock realized he was having something that suspiciously resembled a very nice, very relaxing holiday.

* John does love high-tech gear. Not that he gets to enjoy such gear much, seeing as Sherlock steals even the few old tech-toys the doctor's managed to accrue. Which is why every time they pass a shop selling glitzy gadgets, gizmos, or widgets John usually ducks in to molest the merchandise for a few blissful minutes. As such yes, John is totally aware that he sort of squealed like a three-year-old with a new puppy after spotting the silver-shiny Apple store on their way back through Rome.

* Sherlock enjoys gadgets too, so John could be forgiven for thinking the detective was cerebrally amusing himself with those high tech trinkets in Rome. It wasn't until they were in that store for nearly an hour and he caught Sherlock _beaming_ in his direction that John finally realized his own face was staring back at him from every phone, pad, pod and computer in the place. It turned out Sherlock had whiled away his super-genius time loading the good doctor's blog onto every last device in the store—not his own _Science of Deduction_ website, mind you, no. John's blog. Just John's blog.

* John is fully aware that in most places on this god-forsaken globe it's not quite "okay" for a man to kiss his male lover in public, and he did try to resist the impulse. Yet they'd taken barely a dozen steps from that store before he surrendered utterly to his need, stopped dead in a swirl of pedestrian traffic, took hold of Sherlock by the lapels of that marvelous coat, and with a hard, long kiss right on the mouth wordless said thank-you-you-infuriating-mad-idiotic-brilliant-beautiful-creature-I-love-you-too-with-all-my-heart-and-always-always-so-help-me-god-always-will.

* * *

_Every one of these__ were inspired in some obscure fashion by a recent trip where I finally met gifted artist and writer Livia Carica, and had too much fun being wildly inappropriate with her watching _Frankenstein _(twice) at the cinema. And yes, that woman really had a stabby little death glare and she frightened me mute. Which takes some damn doing, I'll be honest. P.S. All I was doing was laughing before the film began, loudly, not simulating _anything_ thank-you-very-much. P.P.S. This makes 146 of 312._


	13. Chapter 13

* John let Sherlock do it once. One time. Never again. Not ever. So don't even ask. _It_ is give him a manicure and _it_ happened a week after they first got together. The problems started almost immediately, when Sherlock's long-fingered hands slid over John's. John's heavier breathing? His blushing? The alarming spike in his heart rate? These all so fascinated and distracted Sherlock that he kept up with that buffing thingy (John doesn't know its name; he doesn't want to know its name; sometimes John's quite metrosexual enough thank you), and Sherlock ended up mangling the nails on one of John's hands so badly that he was actually bleeding. As in, you know, bleeding. A little. So no more manicures. That's…no. Just no.

* Sherlock knows how to do a manicure for heaven's sake and that little mishap was just once, long ago, and John should stop being all dramatic about it already, okay? Because nice hands look very _nice_ you know_,_ and when there isn't a case on and you've repapered over the bullet holes because Mrs. Hudson made threats (again) and John's hidden his gun and you're bored and you've torn off half a thumbnail (again) reaching into that fish tank with the snapping turtle it's very soothing to give yourself a simple manicure. Nothing elaborate mind you, just a little soaking, a nice trim, some cuticle work, and a good bit of buffing until things shine. What? _What?_

* John is allergic to smoked fish. Not a topic that comes up much, especially when you live with a man who forgets to eat. So wouldn't it just figure he lived with the one Englishman in England who had never had kippers. And wouldn't it figure that that Englishman would have them on a trip away and love them? And then wouldn't it figure that that Englishman, who rarely shops and never cooks but who can, apparently, open a tin of kippers, would do so one Sunday and surprise his lover with a simple omelet (did you see the part about never cooks? because he seriously never cooks) and that that omelet would _not_ be smoked fish-free and John—who was stunned there was food on his plate he had not himself made—would eat it and then break out in hives so _hivey_ that Sherlock freaked out and dragged him to A&E and there went that relaxing Sunday. Fuck.

* Sherlock will claim he doesn't know any pop songs. He lies. Despite himself the detective knows dozens—you can't avoid it, they ooze from speakers in restaurants, from tinny little earbuds jammed in teenage ears, from reality TV shows you claim you don't watch. The one pop song Sherlock knows he knows, because he caught himself singing the chorus before that first night with John, is Cheap Trick's _I Want You to Want Me._ Yeah, the chorus. _That_ chorus. Sherlock can still remember that even he was surprised by the longing in his own voice as the words came out of his mouth that long-ago day.

* John quite possibly knows thousands of pop songs, from a half dozen eras. He doesn't actively listen to pop music much anymore, but he was a slutty fool for the stuff all through his teens and early twenties, surrendering utterly to any bouncy tune that came his way. Sherlock never says anything about it—he doesn't want him to stop—but John will totally mouth all the words to a song he knows or while a song plays he'll sometimes kind of dance around the kitchen or in his chair or through shaving without even realizing he's doing it.

* Sherlock may possibly have no shame as regards, um, sex with inanimate objects. John's still testing the boundaries there and so far he hasn't met one. Hasn't even glimpsed one off in the general distance. John's dared Sherlock to—well be euphemistic—"make love" to one of his jumpers, Sherlock's own coat and violin, the skull, a brolly, a bronze statue, the Union Jack pillow, the riding crop, and a volumetric flask (don't ask). And so far he's done it. Every last time Sherlock's shamelessly straddled, or got on top of, or under, or up against the object at hand and just gone and _had at it._ So John's still not found anything his lover won't do, but he's certainly had a lot of fun along the way and some really very good sex and—_wait. Wait just one stinkin' damn minute._ Just _who _exactly is testing _whose_ boundarieshere?

* John likes the meditative peace of a morning shaving. As such he maximizes the experience by following a few shaving rules. First: Have your tools close to hand. Second: Shave only after you've showered. Third: Always follow rule two. If you don't there will be blood, oh so much blood. Fourth: Do your best to ignore the sly glances of your rangy lover, who is—so far—unwilling to admit that watching you shave turns him on. Fifth: Give up trying to ignore the sly glances of your rangy lover and actively try to turn him on. Sixth: Always wash off all of the shaving cream _before_ sex because it turns out shaving cream gives Sherlock a stomach ache.

* Sherlock's dark ginger beard is slow-growing; he generally needs to shave just half as often as John. When he does, however, Sherlock's very particular. The water needs to be very hot. The soap must be unscented or mint, preferably mint. The razor should be less than three weeks old. The flannel must be no larger than two times the width of his hand. After that, all bets are off. Sherlock may take two minutes to shave or twenty. He may shave his sideburns or forget he has any. Very often he stalls halfway through soaping up, stares into space, and with a small "Oh," arrives at a critical conclusion to a perplexing problem. (An aside: Sherlock's shaving soap does not give John a stomach ache. They've tested.)

* Under his coat, and under his jumpers, through a large part of the winter, some of the fall, and even at times during cold spring days John wears a t-shirt that Sherlock gave him on their seven-and-a-half-month anniversary. The t-shirt says in huge bold letters _Likes Boys_ and when John's got it on under his clothes he feels like he's wearing either a superhero cape or racy knickers (we won't talk about that right now *cough*), which makes him smile inappropriately off-and-on throughout the day.

* Sherlock isn't that hard to shop for, not really. Through trial-and-error John's discovered that his lover always likes gifts of sweets; is fond of silk shirts; will enjoy mint-scented toiletries; and likes any scholarly works (especially if there are many color photos) on the subjects of murder, the decay of corpses, crime in general, or apiology. But hands down Sherlock's favorite gift from John is the scanning electron microscope image of a bee John had matted and framed. However, had the good doctor known Sherlock would hang that slightly-unnerving photo next to the mirror in the loo—where it would stare back at him every single morning—John might have rethought this particular gift.

* John laughs when he's with Sherlock. Looking at his tall, frowny, intense, intimidating lover your first thought is never going to be "Oh, I bet he's a riot," but you know what? He _is._ To hear his almost-forty-year old sweetheart giggle Sherlock is not above a pratfall (well, to be fair, he was tripping on that curb anyway), a ribald play on words (he thought John said hard cock, not bard clock (bard clock?), or tickling. That's actually Sherlock's favorite thing on earth, tickling John. He actually dreams about it sometimes, about softly, gently, endlessly tickling John and hearing him laugh. They are very good dreams, those. Some of the best Sherlock has ever had.

* There are three voice messages Sherlock will never erase from his mobile. The first is John squealing like a three year old: "Where did you get this rabbit! Oh god—no, stop it—*giggle*—Sherlock you better come get this rabb—oh who is the cutest little bun—Sherlo—" and then accidentally disconnecting while in the middle of a crazy giggling fit. The second is John murmuring contritely, "I'm sorry love, I was wrong, so wrong…I actually prefer the blue tights please, they're more slimming," then laughing so hysterically he started wheezing. The third isn't laughter or anything like that, it's just John saying, "I love you, Sherlock. I really, really do."

* * *

___ Go to atlinmerrick dot tumblr dot com for proof that indeed Sherlock does most certainly spend time making his hands pretty. There you'll also see John's t-shirt as well as the bee photo John gave to Sherlock. P.S. ____Thank you Caroline and DarthHelloKitty for wondering about Sherlock's manicure! And t_hank you mustangwoman for wondering about John and Sherlock's shaving habits and thanks Bobby for the idea about the smoked fish.  



	14. Chapter 14

* Sherlock has…what's the word for it? Ah yes, a _bodacious_ bum. He is in all regards a slender man except in the caboose. The back forty. The posterior. He has, as the kids like to say, junk in the trunk. Which is to say Sherlock's butt is kind of big. That capacious bum and its difficult-to-dress dimensions are the chief reason Sherlock buys expensive bespoke suits from a very lovely Savile Row tailor. He's been going to Gerald—a gay man of fifty nine who's been happily united with his sweetie over three decades now—for more than ten years. Needless to say Gerald just adores Sherlock to pieces.

* John is also partial to Sherlock's behind, of course. As a matter of fact he loves it so much he once spent an entire evening calling it every remotely pleasant name he could think of. "I cherish your delightful bottom," had been his opening salvo that night, as they prepared to leave for Angelo's. It was followed, over the entrée, by booty, tail, and tush. Later, as John sipped wine and Sherlock ate dessert, posterior made an appearance, along with buns, bund, and derrière. By the time John unveiled the more rarified callipygian, pygoscopia, and macropygia, Sherlock was under him, John was in him, and the only thing being called was Sherlock's name as John came.

* Speaking of recherché terms, Sherlock secretly loves them. He rarely _uses_ unusual words, but he does enjoy knowing he knows them, just in case. A few of his favorites include slubberdegullion, gongoozler, and nudiustertian. About three seconds after making love to John for the first time basorexia (an overwhelming desire to neck or kiss) became a new favorite, as did gymnophoria (the sensation you are being mentally undressed), and krukolibidinous (staring at someone's crotch). Had John been asked, he would have given two vigorous thumbs up to gowpen (a double handful).

* John has many ways of relaxing after a hard day but his three current favorites are telly, Tetris, and toes. Telly sort of always occupies one of the top positions John's embarrassed to admit, and Tetris, that wonderfully mindless computer game, has recently made its way into his greatest hits, but honestly, if John wants to shut down all mental processes and just stop thinking for awhile he's discovered the best, most guilt-free way to do that is to watch Sherlock's toes. Do you have any idea how wiggly those prehensile things are? Do you?

* Sherlock sets fire to himself now and again, almost as if checking to see he still knows how. Of course he doesn't mean to do it, and yet it happens with such regularity that John's taken to marking the calendar for months in advance, with reminders to buy plasters and aloe and new fire extinguishers. Lately Sherlock has started surreptitiously checking that calendar to see if he's overdue for injury. Somehow it helps to know in advance when he can expect to be an idiot. It doesn't prevent it (he's tried), but it does help keep the conflagrations manageable.

* John's up for just about anything that gets the blood pumping, from a midnight chase dockside to invading a perfectly nice country. There is one excitement the good doctor declines however, and that's being tied up by Sherlock in any fashion whatsoever. He has no moral reticence regarding bondage, as a matter of fact he quite enjoys it on a rainy winter evening (long story). No, John has put the kibosh on this little sexcapade (three times so far) because he is grimly certain that as the last knots are tightened at wrist, ankle, and mouth, Sherlock will get a text from Lestrade and he will be left secured to the bedposts until daybreak. It's entirely possible. You know it is.

* Sherlock's English tends to get more stilted and clipped the crankier or more tired he becomes. "That's silly," morphs into "Well that was a farcical attempt at jocularity," while "Stop that," turns into "If you could cease and desist with alacrity I'd be obliged." Sherlock always gives this proclivity full reign with everyone at the Yard (except Lestrade; usually), but learned to curb this altogether peevish propensity with John after a few fearsome eye narrowings and one entire night without cuddling.

* The military does not easily leave the blood of many who serve, and though John signed up as a medic first, a soldier second, he still carries with him the core traits expected of soldiers: Integrity, service, respect, and honor. Sherlock made the mistake of belittling John's loyalty to queen and country once, but only once. Even as the words left his mouth Sherlock knew he mocked because he himself lacks the selfless courage John has in such abundance he feels no need to remark upon or prove it. If he's lucky, Sherlock thinks he'll one day grow up to be maybe half the man John Watson is.

* Sherlock is not the type to sing in the shower, of course he isn't. No Sherlock recites poetry as he bathes. And not just any verse, but the one and only poem he's ever learned (for a case, naturally): Ode to a Nightingale. Sherlock doesn't know why he still remembers the eight stanzas of this epistle, or why he enjoys reciting it amidst the shower's splash. Another thing Sherlock does not know is that every time John hears that deep baritone dancing over those lyric words, he leans up against the loo door and…just listens.

* John Watson knows how to compromise. Of course he does. So after the third time Sherlock asked to tie him up (and to prevent a fourth time), John hit on a kink they both share: Sex in small spaces. So far they've enjoyed some sort of sensual shenanigans under a piano, in a police box (John can not recommend the Doctor Who Experience highly enough), under a suspect's bed, and in the boot of a luxury car (don't ask). They are always on the lookout for additional venues, should you hear of any.

* On nights when he can't sleep but is far too warm and comfortable to get out of bed, Sherlock studies John's breathing. Sometimes he hovers his fingertips just over John's lips while he sleeps, touching_…_what? Heat. Life. _John._ The warmth of him, the nearness of him, the _reality_ of him sleeping there in peace sparks strange fires in Sherlock. Sometimes those fires take the form of desire. Still other times simple gratitude. Why him? How has this miracle happened? Sherlock doesn't know. He thinks he'll never know. That's all right. This is one mystery Sherlock hopes to never solve.

* John had a pair of black motorcycle boots when he moved into 221B. They put a good five centimeters on him and when he wore them he felt kind of sexy and cool. He's long since given those boots away; they got in the way of hugging. You see, when Sherlock tugs him close and holds him, the top of John's head comes to rest just under Sherlock's chin. From this sweet, warm place John can hear the most precious thing in the world: The sound of Sherlock's heart. The slow, deep beat of home.

* * *

_Thank you Livia Carica for sharing the idea that Sherlock needs to get his suits tailored because of his bodacious tush, and thank you SisterRaven for providing the idea of Sherlock reciting poetry in the shower. Thank you bulleteyes for allowing me to use your elegant line: "__The military does not easily leave the blood of many who serve__." P.S. With a quick search online you can listen to Benedict Cumberbatch reading "__Ode to a Nightingale" very prettily._


	15. Chapter 15

* John's never understood the whole point of lipstick. It's sticky; it smears; it's usually entirely too _red._ Why bother? Then came the first time he saw Sherlock decked out in full drag for a case: teased mane, mascara, Manolos, his mouth done up in something as rosy as an innocent blush. Lord it was like a very good, very pornographic explosion went off in John's head. Before the case, after the case, hell, quite nearly during the case there were things he did with Sherlock's mouth that simply can't be repeated here. That night however? They _were_ repeated. Oh god were they repeated. _Three damned glorious times._

* Sherlock loves body fluids. Blood, urine, spit, ejaculate—he'll tell anyone who cares to listen that human residue (yes, that's what he calls it) provides essential clues at nearly every crime scene. His fascination with _John's_ fluids is never remarked upon at these times, but honest-to-god the next time the detective surreptitiously collects the good doctor's you-know-what from Sherlock's own you-know-where—so he can perform the next in a string of odd experiments—John will throttle the man.

* Babies love John Watson, they really do. For example, let's imagine posh baby A has purloined posh baby B's teddy bear with the 8 carat ruby eyes. Now let's imagine John and Sherlock enter the chic nursery with its eight toddler suspects and move to opposite sides of the room. You can easily imagine what happens next. Without exception, the gaze of each and every child in that nursery will follow the quiet sandy-haired man instead of the dramatically striding caped crusader. Every. Single. One. Even when Sherlock smiles and hands the recovered teddy bear to its little owner, that infant only has googly eyes for John. All he does for Sherlock is whimper a little and spit up on the detective's new shoes.

* For Sherlock, it only happens with the violin. Sometimes when he himself is playing, sometimes when he's listening. It doesn't happen often, but once in awhile, when he hears music that's ethereal, exquisite, sweeping, something full of grace or fire—his body responds as if to the touch of a lover. Quite simply, Sherlock gets hard. Before John he always let that sweet ache dissipate, unrelieved. After John? Well let's just say bliss is sometimes all the foreplay you will ever need.

* Since the beginning John's almost always carried a small moleskin notepad to crime scenes. It was this very first notepad that Sherlock happened on recently when, randomly perusing books from the sitting room shelves, he discovered all of John's filled notepads neatly filed away in chronological order. Paging through that small, worn tome from years past, Sherlock discovered words describing him that had never made it into those early posts on John's blog. Simple words like grace, beguiling, passionate, and alone.

* The first time Sherlock saw John at work he found the white-coated doctor on his knees in the clinic waiting room, laughing about dandelions with a toddler while injecting her vaccination so smoothly she didn't even flinch. A week later Sherlock was still trying to figure out exactly why the tableau had excited him. It wasn't the white coat (tests included John wearing it, him wearing it, then sort of having sex _on_ it), it wasn't the needle (you probably don't want to know), it wasn't the laugh (John's laugh makes Sherlock feel other things). In the end Sherlock figured it was seeing John in such easy, natural control. The whole on-his-knees part didn't hurt any either.

* John hated every moment of it and if you get him drunk and talking about it he'll get so loud and sweary you'll have to buy him another pint to shut him up and calm him the hell down. _It_ was physical therapy and god damn he had detested it. Yet the three weeks he went without soon after moving into 221B, his shoulder became so stiff Sherlock stopped letting him come along on cases. To his surprise (at the time) that had been all the motivation the good doctor (but bad patient) had needed to grit his teeth and get the hell on with it.

* Want to be like Sherlock Holmes in one easy step? Look up. That's all, just look _up._ Once you do you'll realize how _rarely_ you do, and once you do you'll also realize just how much you miss. John once pressed Sherlock for a rough figure and though it's by no means a precise calculation, the detective estimates that the solution to perhaps one case in five has been found because Sherlock simply damn well looked _up._

* Once a year John Watson goes pink all over. It doesn't matter if he's filling in at the clinic or spending the day at the Yard, on _Wear It Pink_ day he does exactly that, from tie to trainers. Livia Hammersley Watson was sixty eight when breast cancer took her and while John doesn't much truck with regret, he'll always wish he'd become a doctor sooner. Maybe then his grandmother would have talked to him about her symptoms; maybe then they'd have discovered the disease sooner. By the time they knew, it was everywhere and it was too late. So each year, in late October, John goes pink.

* Sherlock always tells John not to buy him gifts for his birthday. Or Christmas. Or any other occasion. And he means it. Every time. Almost every time. Sometimes. Okay, almost never. That's because John buys Sherlock very odd, very perfect, very _Sherlock_ gifts. Obscure old books on poisons. Silk shirts in rare shades. Double-strength nicotine patches the source of which the doctor will not disclose. And once, just once, honey so dark it was almost black. God it had looked beautiful dripping down John's neck, his belly, his chin.

* John still remembers the first time he kissed Sherlock in public. They were at their favorite Chinese place and he'd just spent fifteen minutes trying to teach Sherlock to use chopsticks. You'd think with that natural grace, those long fingers, and a brain the size of a watermelon the detective would have got the hang of it, but he didn't. What Sherlock did get was a fit of giggles so utterly endearing that John leaned over that restaurant table, tugged his brand new lover close, and kissed him until both their bodies were a good three degrees warmer.

* Sherlock still remembers every moment of the first time John touched him in public, really touched him. They'd become lovers exactly seventeen hours previous. They had just ordered more Chinese food than was probably legal. And John was trying to show him how to use chopsticks. Sherlock couldn't get the hang of it at first and because John kept laughing, he didn't _want_ to get the hang of it. Then John leaned across the table and kissed him, right there in the middle of the restaurant. Sherlock was so surprised and happy—he'd unconsciously assumed John would, what? Be ashamed of who he was with?—that Sherlock honest-to-god briefly forgot his own name.

_Thank you Kimber for the idea that Sherlock sometimes blisses out to music so hard that he _gets_ hard. Thank you __bugeyedmonster__ for seconding a request for something about John and physical therapy. And t__hank you Lolita-Mist for the idea of showing John at work, white coat and all._


	16. Chapter 16

* Sherlock never means to shock John slack-jawed, but some things required for a case seem so obvious he forgets to explain them beforehand_._ Like the time he shaved his head for the one in Essex. Or when he wore the silver sequined jump suit that time in Gloucester. And honestly, the case John eventually wrote up as _Needle in a Haystack?_ Well at the time it seemed self-evident to Sherlock that he couldn't get a half dozen _tattoos_ to blend in, so the piercings? Well they were perfectly logical, weren't they?

* One, two, three, four…by the time John counted six piercings, his jaw unhinged and his blink reflex stopped working. He didn't believe what he saw so he touched what he saw: Silver hoops the size of twenty pence pieces in Sherlock's ears and nipples. Smaller hoops in his left eyebrow and belly button. Those familiar words—"It's for a case, John"—made their appearance and at first all John did was nod. Then all the good doctor did for the week the case lasted (and before those piercings were allowed to close) was shag his sweetie senseless, early and often. Because John? Good god he has a kink for jewelry on Sherlock like you would absolutely not believe.

* Sherlock lets John feed him. He'll always let John feed him. Rarely, however, does he make more than the most basic effort to feed _himself._ Which was why he felt justified in telling his lover "it's the best of both worlds," when his latest food enthusiasm—John calls them addictions—took hold. "They're very high in calories, which should make you happy, and I like them, which makes me happy." John just watches Sherlock eat them and feels his arteries harden in sheer sympathy.

* John is easy to please, he really is. So every time he watches Sherlock willingly fetch a food, then sit down to watch telly with him and _eat that food?_ Well the good doctor nearly does a happy dance because it doesn't matter what Sherlock enjoys, so long as he _eats something._ However, John still feels a bit guilty he introduced his lover to this latest food addiction (Sherlock calls them _enthusiasms)._ Not that they're not tasty because they are, good lord they are, but chocolate-covered crisps? So help him John feels a half stone heavier just looking at them.

* Sherlock has an off switch. John didn't discover it until they'd been together awhile, and even then it was utterly by accident. Patting Sherlock's back? Not it. Rubbing his feet? Nope. Massaging his head. Nice try. No, the way to get Sherlock to calm down, shut down, even fall asleep in the middle of the day _with a case on_ is to…squish him. You heard right. Lay all of your weight and the full length of your five foot seven inch body on top of Sherlock Holmes and he will simply stop moving, talking, thinking. If you stay still long enough he will even eventually pass clean out. John is seriously chuffed with this knowledge. Seriously.

* Speaking of piercings, John's belly button is, something no one but Sherlock knows. Legacy of his late teens that piercing, the last time John wore a hoop in that tiny hole he was probably 23 and totally drunk. After seeing how his piercings turned John on (honestly, the man got a hard-on in Sainsbury's, when all Sherlock did was wear the eyebrow ring), Sherlock asked the good doctor to wear a hoop in his belly button. What Sherlock discovered was that piercings do nothing for him, but that tying his own wrists behind his back and then removing that hoop with only his mouth? It was actually enough to make John come. Good to know. Very good to know.

* For a long time Sherlock didn't even _notice_ he was doing it, and that tells you something. Apparently what Sherlock does, what he's been doing for years, is to stand up to his full, lanky height when he wants to find the strength to resist John. Small John. Little John. _Physically much shorter than him_ John. Does it work? Does this looming large help the great detective withstand the dictates of his tiny tyrant? Absolutely, positively, completely not a fucking chance.

* John doesn't even realize he's doing it, which is part of what makes it sweet and somehow sexy. Though he was an Army man—a ground force, of course—John instinctively responds to the sound of military jets. When he hears one he'll simply stop what he's doing and look up, eyes tracking the grey phantom across the sky, tongue licking his lips, a curt little nod to wrap up his brief fascination. Maybe Sherlock finds this behavior a bit sexy because it makes him think of John in the cockpit of something fast. Oh. Yes. Well. That's it exactly. Yes…uh, just yes.

* Sherlock has never been jealous of his lover in _that_ way. He knows John would never sleep around, lie about something important, hurt him on purpose. So no, Sherlock's not jealous of John. Not about anything _significant._ He _is_ absolutely crazy-jealous of some of the little, niggling, fascinating, annoying stuff. Like John's ability to brush his teeth and talk at the same time. Or John's hair, which even when he's run his fingers through it until it sticks straight up, always looks, frankly, _cuter._ And don't get Sherlock started on the fact that even though he's _much prettier_ when they dress in drag (for a case okay, it's always for a _case),_ John still gets hit on twice as often as Sherlock.

* John's not into sex toys, frankly. Oh he likes a good bit of playing around with the occasional novelty item, but neither he nor Sherlock are devotees (except the riding crop; they both make exception for the riding crop). So it really was unexpected when they each fell hard for that silly trifle John brought home from a bachelor party a few months back. But fall they did, at least for the long night that little curio lasted. Then again, maybe it's not so surprising. Because a candy cock ring? Really a whole lot more entertaining—and delicious—than you might think.

* If you'd told Sherlock that day in St. Bart's that the small man standing at the end of the lab bench would one day pretty much quietly_ dominate _him, Sherlock would have invaded your personal space, all the better to laugh right down into your face. Now, several years on, Sherlock's still stunned when John says, "Do this," and all he asks is, "Now?" But the real miracle? The amazing part? The thing that makes it all perfect, just fine, excellent? Sherlock _wants_ to do what John asks. Oh god, he really does want to.

* John is perfectly aware of the power he has over this powerful creature called Sherlock Holmes. Almost from the start he realized he was something of a lion tamer, able to mellow this brilliant, fierce force of nature. Fortunately for Sherlock, John never has and never will be the kind of man to abuse…anything. Not power, not influence, not friend, nor foe. Fortunately for Sherlock John loves him, loves him so much that should the good detective ever revert to his savage ways, John Watson would lay down his life rather than defend himself against him. Sherlock knows this. Sherlock_ very, very much _knows this.

_Thank you kiharukitty, you are evil for putting the words chocolate-covered potato chips all in a row. Thank you __Livia Carica for saying in passing that you wanted John to have a pierced belly button. And thank you lmusic and meredydd, both of whom asked for a bit of Sherlock jealousy. Thank you LittlePippin76 for the charming idea of Sherlock's "off switch," and Random Nexus? Only you would come up with candy cock rings._


	17. Chapter 17

* Unlike most men, John actually looks younger with a beard. Perhaps it's because a pale, sandy beard smoothes out the planes of his face. Maybe it's the way it grows in, giving him a bit of a permanent smile. Probably it's actually just this: John's beard looks a lot like an adolescent boy's. Scruffy, a little skimpy, and very, very soft. Sherlock can vouch for that last bit and will. Though John doesn't let his beard grow out often, when he does Sherlock has a tendency to rub his face against it like some lanky, pale, strangely alluring cat.

* Sherlock, however, hates to grow a beard. While a case may so distract the erratic genius that he'll let his hair become a rat's nest of tangles, he absolutely won't allow his personal grooming to fall to the depths of actually producing facial hair. Well, except when he has a cold. Or the flu. And then _only _because John likes to shave him. Well yes, okay fine, _yes_ he likes the shaving part, too. But that's emphatically _not_ the reason he's kind of happy about the tickle he's got in the back of his throat right now, okay? It's…that's because of an experiment. What sort of experiment? Um, something to do with, uh, mucus formation. Never mind, you wouldn't understand.

* John loves Sherlock as he is, of course he does. He'll also love the man if he changes. For example, if Sherlock were to, say, put on over eight pounds—most of it in his tummy and bum—because a case in a bakery pretty much forced him to eat all day every day for two whole glorious weeks? John would love that wee bit of tummy and that even more bodacious bum. As a matter of fact he would love it so much that he might wake up singing, he might go to bed singing, he might even dance a fucking jig once or twice when Sherlock wasn't looking. If—*cough*—if, you know, that were to happen.

* Sherlock loves John as he is. He would change absolutely nothing. As in nothing. Seriously, don't even suggest it. Because about this Sherlock will brook no impertinence. As a matter of fact if you even suggest a small area for overall improvement of Sherlock's John, the good detective will revert instantly to his old self. The one with the eviscerating tongue. The one who knows where on your tender psyche to press and for exactly how long. So if you're thinking of saying _even one tiny negative thing_ about John in Sherlock's presence just shut the hell up right now. Seriously.

* Before the army John was a slug-a-bed; it took him at least three goes to become conscious, then about fifteen minutes of sliding body parts off the bed's edge before he could actually get up. After the army, John not only woke before the alarm, he popped out of bed like, um, a popping up thing. Now, with Sherlock, John still wakes before the alarm, but rarely gets right up, usually doing one of three things instead. First he tries to remember if Sherlock did anything crazy the night before which may require fixing, paying for, or being stroppy about. If the answer is no, he tries to remember if he's got locum work for which he needs to rise. If the answer is no, he lets his hand wander south to check on the state of affairs. If there's no interest south he does one of three things: creates interest, checks Sherlock's southern regions for interest, or gets up and makes toast.

* Considering how much Sherlock hates sleeping, he's pretty loathe to leave the state once he's given himself up to it. So what Sherlock does most mornings is one of three things: If there's no case on and John is up, he often sleeps until noon. If there's no case on and John's in bed, Sherlock curls up against him and sleeps until noon. If there _is_ a case on he wakes thirty seconds before the alarm goes off and from there Sherlock does one of three things. He pokes John in the ribs to wake him and starts talking about the case before John's even conscious. He grabs John's cock to wake him and then something invigorating and sexual occurs. Or he apologizes for the case-related thing he did last night that he forgot to tell John about, or for the case-related thing he's about to do and of which John will highly disapprove.

* John is very amused with the nicknames he recently came up with for his lover and himself. "Curves and Angles. I'm the curves, you're the angles," he told Sherlock the day these appellations occurred. "Color me surprised," his sweetheart answered. Aaannnd…there's really nothing more to say about this, actually.

* Sherlock is often cold. Yes, so far so obvious, what with the dead give-away of those scarves wrapped around his swan's neck, and the great coat he wears from chin to shin nine months of the year. Yet we mention it by way of explaining why John does some of the John things he does to, for, and on Sherlock. If you've ever wondered why John holds his lover's hands at odd moments it's because he's noticed the detective's forgotten his gloves again and his fingers have gone red and chafed. If you've wondered why the good doctor makes all those cups of tea—half of which Sherlock never finishes—it's because his lover often wraps his hands around and then hunches over a steaming cup while he thinks, talks, or performs experiments. And if you've ever been curious as to how come John crawls on top of Sherlock late at night or first thing in the morning sometimes it's becau—oh. No, no, that's, um, that's for another reason entirely.

* John's body temperature runs high. The first time Sherlock really touched John—a few weeks after he moved in, grabbing the doctor's wrist when he plucked up Sherlock's mobile and saw his own name in a text—Sherlock almost jerked his hand away, surprised at how hot John's skin was. Soon after that the curious detective found sixty-three more reasons to touch his flatmate, trying to gauge exactly how warm John's body ran. If you'd have asked Sherlock _why_ he cared to know precisely at what temperature the good doctor operated he would have lied right to your face (and his own, frankly) and told you a curious man is curious about many things. He would not have told you (or yet admitted to himself) that he spent a large part of many of the next weeks trying to figure out how to "accidentally" touch John, and another large part of many, many mornings telling himself he would _not_ touch his erection, he would _not_ touch his erection, he would _not…_

* You probably don't want to know this about Sherlock, so maybe you should skip over this bit of minutiae. Frankly it's kind of gross and…and…you're still reading, aren't you? Are you sure about this? Yes? Okay, well, if you insist, but don't say you weren't warned because you were. Sherlock, the man who can't be bothered to fetch his mobile from his own breast pocket? The one who gets _that_ wrapped up in what he's doing? Yeah, well that guy, when he's working on a crucial experiment in the kitchen and needs to add another drop of denatured alcohol to the culture every ninety seconds exactly, or has to dip thing A into thing B precisely when thing C turns blue, well if it just so happens that Sherlock's got to _pee_ between these critical junctures, really, really has to pee, he'll, um, well, er…Sherlock kind of pees in the kitchen sink. Don't tell John, okay? Because John would totally have a conniption fit if he found out.

** _I already know, Sherlock. I also know about those two jumpers of mine you stained, then accidentally burned, then hid at the bottom of the bin, and I'm fully aware of the tracking device you put in my mobile and why. Generally love you anyway, you strange, fascinating, disgusting creature. __- John_

* They could shag for babies all day but John knows that he and Sherlock will never have kids. Yes, there's the small issue of physical impossibility (though the good doctor is 100% sure Sherlock would be up for carrying a child if it were possible: "Just think of the experiments, John!"), though of course they could adopt. Yet they won't. John loves kids, but he knows that ship has sailed, he's just too old at this point to start with all that. Still. Watching Sherlock at the morgue with that kitten of Molly's this afternoon (kitten; morgue; Molly—why did that string of words fail to surprise?), it kind of made John ache a little.

* Sherlock's never cared what people think of him, for bad _or_ for good. So as he played with Molly's sleepy kitten on his lap he failed to notice just how many at St. Bart's were watching—and changing their opinion of him. He didn't notice the open mouths or gentle smiles as he tickled that tiny fuzzy tummy, the infant creature making biscuits in the air, wee claws snagging on his sleeve. Sherlock did notice John's expression, however, a brand new one he'd never seen before, bittersweet and gentle. _What are you thinking John?_ he 'll ask him tonight, when they're in bed and whispering soft in the dark. For some reason Sherlock expects that John's answer is going to surprise him…and maybe hurt. A little. Maybe a little more than a little.

___Thank you lmusic for wanting to know something about John and Sherlock waking up together. And that tiny kitten Sherlock's playing with? Inspired by the first baby cat video you'll find if you search YouTube with the terms "__Kleines Katzchen RopePower1."_  



	18. Chapter 18

* When you murmured an appreciative comment within Sherlock's hearing about that random hottie walking by, what did you expect? Of _course_ he'd have an opinion. And of course he'd tell you your little looker's blond mop was dirty dishwater compared to John's soft, sandy mane. And certainly he'd say that long legs are fine if you 'like stick figures,' but he prefers compact, broad, and strong. And when you discussed the allure of exotic features why were you surprised when Sherlock said dark blue eyes, a pert nose, and a mouth that seems to frown and smile at the same time were far more captivating than 'that conflagration of exotica, I mean really, he's positively bizarre-looking.' Face it, as far as Sherlock's concerned the most beautiful man on earth is John H. Watson and frankly you're an idiot if you think otherwise.

* John recently met John. It could probably only happen in eight million-strong London, which seems to have everyone's doppelganger if John and Sherlock are anything to go by. Anyway, it was the last day of the case and they were only supposed to be at the National for just fifteen minutes, but that turned into a couple of hours as John talked to this guy who looked so much like him it was unnerving. He was really a very nice man actually, though a bit sweary. His hair was lighter and a fair bit longer, he lacked John's posture and intermittent reserve but still they had a lovely talk in one of the theatre's cafes. This other bloke didn't even seem bothered by Sherlock's staring, his silence, or that strange look on his face.

* Well fuck him twice and call the paramedics. No, seriously, fuck him twice. Sherlock is as shocked as the next man that his brain went where it went when he saw John talking to that actor. He honestly didn't think he could entertain sexual thoughts of anyone but his good doctor, but apparently he can when the other person, you know, looks like his good doctor. Because when Sherlock saw John and that other man together all thoughts of the case flew out of his head and he sat there still and quiet and imagined his gentle John doing what his gentle John does and the other guy channeling John's bad-ass-mother-fucker tiny tyrant side….and…and then he imagined the two of them, um, working him in tandem and oh good Christ and unicorns all Sherlock could do the entire time those two chatted was smile pleasantly and wait patiently while his raging hard-on took its own sweet time going away.

* Somewhere during John and Sherlock's first year the good doctor decided to lose weight. As befits a strong-willed man, John went full steam ahead and achieved his goal with spectacular results. Twenty-five pounds later he was so trim you could bounce a quarter off his damned abs. And John was proud of what he'd accomplished. Very proud. And bored. Oh so very…bored. Hell, John hated not_ eating,_ and doing god damn _crunches_, and he missed how Sherlock used to _bite_ him (when we said John's abs were spectacular, we mean fucking hard-as-rocks awesome; if Sherlock had tried biting those bad boys he'd have chipped a tooth). Fortunately for all concerned, John put twenty-four pounds back on not six months later. He knew all was right with the world when he stopped swearing 24/7, and Sherlock not only started nibbling his stomach again, but straddled him late one night and unveiled to great acclaim the rather splendid Sherlock-humps-and-then-comes-on-John's-belly shenanigan. Quite the hit with all concerned, really.

* Have you ever dug through a stack of Sherlock's papers? Or had a look at the margins of his case notes? Or the margins of John's moleskin notepads for that matter? If you have, then you've seen the detective's cryptic scrawl, with words like ester, tautomer, reagent, and isotopic reactivity, as well as urine, milk, radioactive, cupboard, hide, John, and fire extinguisher to name just a few in just one margin on just one scrap of paper. These enigmatic scribblings are ideas for, responses to, or summaries of experiments Sherlock plans on doing, reading, or writing up. No one's ever counted up just how many experiments Sherlock's done, intends to do, or thinks were done poorly by someone else and so need _redoing,_ but if they did the number would be precisely two thousand nine hundred and forty eight.

* John has an on switch and it's a very, very obvious on switch and Sherlock knew what it was within the first hour they lived together. The way to prime John for running down alleys, trooping to the Yard at two a.m., or digging through case files until the early hours is, was, and ever shall be a cup of tea. And not just any cup of tea—no, but a strong two-teabag cup of tea, piping hot, small porcelain mug, with five uninterrupted minutes to drink (once it's cooled it's powerless). Yes, Sherlock's not very inclined to _make_ John that robust cuppa but he feels he's done his part by purchasing the most interesting leaves he can find when the opportunity arises. Which is why their cupboard contains not only some simple black tea, but also Golden Blessing Darjeeling, Earl Grey Robusta, Smoke and Velvet Ceylon, silver needle white, black flowering jasmine, Shimmering Pearl oolong, Egyptian green apple, linden flower orange nectar, Madagascar bitter lemon, black currant Bronze Reserve, and Millennium Raj chai. Sherlock is very keen to track down a bit of diamond-cut, loose leaf Platinum rooibos as well, but so far he and Mycroft have had no luck running it to ground.

* Sherlock does a lot of things that drive John nuts. There's the _bad_ kind of nuts that usually involves swearing because the kitchen table is on fire (again) or live snails have left slime on the produce (again). Then there's the _good_ kind of nuts (that often involves swearing) because Sherlock's rutting against him until John's so hard he hurts, or as he's started doing recently, Sherlock's shoving his fingers in his own mouth _in public_ and fellating them while John attempts to drink hot coffee or buy a newspaper or talk to Lestrade, and everyone wonders why the good doctor's suddenly blushing or choking and when they turn around Sherlock's just standing there looking innocent and patient and not even smirking which, if you ask John, really should make it _so obvious_ he's been up to something.

* It was without a doubt the weirdest damn sex dream John had ever had, and he feels pretty sanguine about the superlative _ever._ Not that it wasn't good, because it was, which is the whole problem: It was _damned _good. Because when you wake yourself up _coming?_ Chances are you've had something of a nice time in dream land. The problem was John's dream lover. He had, um…well he was…there was a _tail,_ okay? And scales. Okay? And _fucking fangs,_ all right? Are you getting this down? And the part about the fire-breathing, too? And the treasure? Hm? You know, considering he'd had a really nice orgasm out of it, you'd think the whole thing would have left John in a much better mood than it did. Instead he snapped at Sherlock all morning as if it was somehow _his_ fault.

* Almost nothing disgusts Sherlock, but this did and he still doesn't know why. Maybe it was John's fascination with it, a sort of ghoulish glee if you ask him. Maybe it was just the fact that it had never happened before and seeing it up close sort of freaked him out. Whatever the reason, Sherlock could barely stand to live with himself the entire week he was _peeling_ after an epic sunburn. He appeared to be pulling away from his own body in _sheets_ and it was ghastly. John just made it worse every time he did that double-handed waving gesture—_come here come here—_and then set to stripping Sherlock of his flesh with such single-minded relish his tongue poked out the side of his mouth and he giggled and talked to himself. Sherlock never did understand what John was saying and frankly, he didn't really want to.

* Sometimes they dance. Oh, sure you might not call it that, but John—who's always the instigator—does. It usually happens on cold, wet afternoons, when Sherlock's been listening to violin concertos all day and John's feeling a little bit blue and a little bit affectionate. As the storm casts the room in grey, the good doctor tugs his detective from the couch and into his arms, and the two men hold each other, one listening close to his lover's heartbeat, the other running long fingers through short hair, and in that dusky half-light they sway, moving just a little, just enough that yes, yes they are, they're damn well dancing.

* Sherlock knows John dislikes Sally. It doesn't take a deductive genius to see the way his back goes rigid and his mouth tight at the sight of her. The old Sherlock would have ramped up his slander-and-humiliate campaign for this reason alone, but damn it he's not that man any more—a fact he's lamented more than once. So for John Sherlock pretends the word doesn't bother him each time she says it, and for John Sherlock has gone completely absolutely fucking positively against his nature and said—twice—"Good morning Sergeant Donovan," and, so help him, "Good work, detective." _That_ one he's actually uttered _three_ times and he had to be absolutely foul to Anderson right after just to make himself feel normal.

* Okay, sometimes people just rub each other the wrong way. John gets it, he really does. If those people are smart, they steer clear of one another. If they can't they emphatically _don't make the situation worse._ They especially, god damn it, don't use the word freak, okay? Because if John hears that one more time, if he has to keep his mouth shut one more god damn_ time…_Okay. Okay. John knows that sometimes people just rub each other the wrong way. And that you have to try to not make the situation worse. So you'll do what you always do: You'll close the door if you see her coming. You'll tell him his deductions are amazing. And you'll tell him he's perfect. _Because he is damn it,_ how can she not see that?

_Thank you __Ends of Time for asking for something with Sherlock waxing lyrical about John's looks; you're right, John doesn't get enough of this kind of love__. And thank you __Livia Carica for asking for something about plump John_ _and for something about how the boys feel when Sally calls Sherlock freak._


	19. Chapter 19

* John's an understanding man. Willing to meet in the middle on most things. He'd have probably made a pretty good diplomat except for the sweary tendencies and the disinclination to take bullshit when bullshit is being given. All that being said, there's a few things John's just not willing to put up with and while he reckons that for most of them he should have a good reason, for this he doesn't and he doesn't care. Every time Sherlock does it John will tell him to stop and if he doesn't stop John is always going to kick him under the table until he does. End of story.

* Sherlock thinks that if John just _thinks_ about it he should be thrilled. He's always on about _eating_ and calories and meals, so you'd think he'd be happy Sherlock's showing an interest but no, he's the precise opposite. Instead of encouraging Sherlock's _interest_ John gets sweary and kicks him under the table and once he even yanked a plate away so hard they were both sure he'd chipped one of Sherlock's teeth. Well fortunately he hadn't but for the life of him Sherlock can not figure out what's so damn bad about licking John's plate, cup, or bowl clean when they've had a really good meal at a really good restaurant.

* John is not a half-measures man. If he's going to make you come, so help him it's going to be so intense your toes curl. If he's going to fight crime, he's going to haul out a Browning L9A1 and shoot you right through the damned heart. And if he's going to scratch a bug bite John Watson is, apparently, going to do so until it bloody well _bleeds._ The first time Sherlock saw this in action he watched in silent fascination as the healer hurt himself. The second time—and every one thereafter—Sherlock stilled John's hand before too much damage could be done, then he licked at the small wound. Sanitary? No. Diverting? Hell yes.

* Sherlock would like to be stuffed. And not in the oh-yes-harder-John-harder sort of stuffed, no. When Sherlock's dead he'd like his brain donated to science (he's made a list of who should get his grey matter, in descending order of preference), his flesh and organs to the Body Farm in the U.S., and finally he'd like his skeleton dressed in his clothes, those clothes stuffed to more or less represent his living physique, then he wants the grisly result propped up somewhere obtrusive in Scotland Yard. John blames BBC2 for this gruesome fancy because after Sherlock saw that Jeremy Bentham documentary—whose bones, complete with wax head, still sit in a glass case at University College London—he just would not shut up about it.

* John speaks several hundred words of Dari, the dominant language of Afghanistan, has on board maybe fifty words of Pashto, and knows about a half dozen Uzbek and Nuristani expletives. To pretty much everyone's surprise—including Sherlock, Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Angelo, and Mr. Merrick the corner grocer—John sounds sexy as hell when he speaks any of these languages, his voice naturally falling to a deeper, more measured cadence as he carefully maneuvers teeth and tongue through the intricacies of each dialect. It is, however, only Sherlock who gets to wake up with John's lips pressed to his throat, while the good doctor purrs, "I need to go into town for supplies; no that's too much; another beer please; where does it hurt; let me help," in a crazy-quilt of foreign tongues.

* Sherlock will do it until his body gives in, every time. It's gotten so that John secretly times him, to see how fast he can get himself there. So far the record is twenty seconds, and only then because he impatiently shoved an _entire_ Scotch bonnet pepper in his mouth. _Why_ Sherlock sometimes craves extremely spicy food John doesn't know, but a few times a year yearn for it he does and while John distractedly eats his pad see ewe or black bean enchilada, he'll sit and watch sweat form on Sherlock's upper lip, he'll shake his head when the flush rises over Sherlock's face, and he'll try not to giggle when at last Sherlock's sympathetic nervous system rebels and takes the elegant detective down with a loud, prolonged, squeaky bout of hiccups.

* John thought he'd grown out of it, he really did. Then Sherlock caught him making eyes at a pretty little tray of them at Harrod's and all John could do was blush, claim they were 'just for kids,' and walk away. Then Sherlock did one of those things no one thinks Sherlock's capable of and wouldn't you know it not ten minutes later they were sitting cross-legged on the grass in Hyde Park wolfing down a dozen teeny tiny pink and blue fairy cakes, some with pretty little frosted bows on top, some not.

* Sherlock first started leaving a wee fairy cake somewhere his lover would find it in the flat because he needed to apologize for setting fire to John twice in the same week. Then a way to beg pardon for the broken hinge on the front door. And also for the stuff that still won't come off the bed sheets. But now he even does it when he's got nothing to apologize for, and that's partially for the silly grin John gets when he finds one, partially because Sherlock's curious to see what John's partial to (chocolate sponge, marshmallow frosting, currently), and partially because Sherlock just enjoys sucking on John's sugary-sweet lower lip after.

* John has broken seven bones in his body in the last four decades. When Sherlock found this out he was extremely impressed and even murmured something John's pretty sure contained the word BAMF. John, wisely, said nothing. He did not tell Sherlock how, when, or where he broke those seven bones. If he had, he'd have learned that John broke his right femur after falling off his uncle's parked motorcycle (he was seven), then broke it again falling off a pair of skis (he was ten); he broke a collarbone when Harry sat on him (eleven); both scapula and a finger (all he knows is it was his seventeenth birthday and he was extremely drunk); and a toe, in army basic training, after dropping an M16 mockup on his foot (he was thirty four). If you don't mind, John's just going to let Sherlock continue to be impressed, okay? Okay.

* Sherlock has sprained both ankles almost every year for the last five years (usually from running after a suspect in the dark). He's nearly had hypothermia twice (the Thames is extremely cold in December, January, and February); had first degree burns eight times (experiments); pinched a nerve in his shoulder, back, and neck (falling badly); torn a ligament in his shin, knee, and elbow (defending himself against suspects); cut his lip, above his left eye, and the back of his knee (again, self-defense). He's blistered, bruised, burned, abraded, or singed every finger on both hands times past counting (more experiments). But Sherlock has never actually broken a bone.

* Mrs. Hudson recently asked John when he'd realized Baker Street was home, and the doctor took three days before answering her. When he finally did his reply was long-winded—she'd put the kettle on twice—though it really boiled down to this: in actual fact Baker Street was just a messy, musty, creaky old box. And while it contained his favorite dressing gown, a dozen warm jumpers, two boxes of precious photos, a few childhood drawings, and a lot of dreams and plans, it became so much more than the sum of its parts the day he realized someone needed him. His words, his mind, his body, his…soul. Sherlock needed him. He _wanted_ to need him. When John realized that he knew at last he was home.

* The skull, his pilfered lab equipment, the eight hundred fifty six scientific, true crime, and forensic books he can't bear to part with, a wardrobe of splendid clothes, the violin, case notes, chemicals, his experiments and computer…when John asked Sherlock what made Baker Street home that's what he rattled off without thinking. It wasn't until three in the morning that he realized that though all those things made this bricks-and-mortar building his haven, they only half answered the question. What made Baker Street home was that each and every time he returned to it he felt loved. Even on the days he was really quite unlovable. _Especially_ then. Somehow John was just fine with Sherlock waking him up at three a.m. to tell him that.

_Thank you __Sabrinaphynn for the idea that John scratches until he bleeds, and Kakareen__ for the idea Sherlock craves extremely spicy foods and John loves fairy cakes. N__oirrosaleen thanks for figuring out Sherlock leaves those little cakes around for John to find, and Livia Carica for wondering when the boys each knew Baker Street was home._


	20. Chapter 20

* Sherlock's been in the Thames up to his nipples more times than he can count, so you'd think he'd be a good swimmer, a natural with that physique of his, but he's not. Yes Sherlock can swim, and quite powerfully, but if you were to swim at his side you'd hear the wheezing gasps of a man half-drowning. Which is to say Sherlock perfectly grasped the dynamics of the freestyle stroke moments after studying it, but the breathing part—the getting his face _out of the water_ and air into his lungs? For some reason he just can't get the hang of that for the life of him.

* There's always an article about Sherlock in some evening paper, true crime magazine, or blog, and the writers inevitably trot out the same tired descriptives: Sherlock's brilliant, intense, striking. He's a genius, remarkable, tall, clever. And John? Well, John's always, _always_ small, serious, and loyal. Over a beer awhile back Greg asked the good doctor if that kinda pissed him off but John shrugged. "It's true, isn't it? I'm loyal, he's clever. I'm small, he's tall. What makes it okay, really, is the part those writers don't know or don't care about: Sherlock's very, very fond of small, serious, and loyal."

* There are three instances where Sherlock loves surprises: at crime scenes, in a conversation with John, or when opening a birthday gift. He emphatically—and he would like to underline this with truculent gestures and maybe a self-righteous glare—does not wish to be surprised _in his mouth._ So if John ever, ever, and Sherlock really means _e.v.e.r._ gives him one of those candies again, the kind that start off all strawberries-and-cream or blueberry-kiwi but then turn more sour than propylthiouracil soaked in sodium lauryl sulfate and dipped in lemon juice and mean thoughts, well, the bad, bad, very bad doctor is going to be sleeping out in the foyer for the entire week. All right? All right.

* John's usually the one who answers the phones, both his and Sherlock's. So over time it's just evolved that he decides which cases they take and which they pass by. Sure he runs most of them by Sherlock first but if there's no other case on _any_ case gets the thumbs up as far as John's concerned. Because, my friends, there's only so many times you can say you're sorry to your landlady, the neighbors to the left, the grocer over on Park Road, or the guy who does that thing at the corner of Regent's Park that is perfectly legal and for which he should not be harassed by a cranky consulting detective who has nothing else to do.

* Sherlock is about eight years old sometimes, you know he is, which is to say petulant and temperamental. So when John harangued him last week about staying up three days in a row with nothing more than catnaps to sustain him, Sherlock figured John had it coming and so there. And by _it_ Sherlock means the experiment this last weekend where he decided to see how many hours straight he could sleep. Never mind that John wanted to check out the bi-planes at that fly-in up north, and never mind the fact that the sheets needed changing so badly they qualified as a biological experiment. So anyway, the point is, he had it coming and the answer after several repeated attempts is, apparently, eighteen and a half.

* You'd probably be surprised how often a friend, acquaintance, or perfect stranger will ask good Doctor Watson to have a look at their pet. "I know she's not a person, but she's coughing and—could you just listen to her heart or something?" For a long time John tried avoiding these requests—that kitten will always do well to see a _kitten_ doctor for heaven's sake—but once he realized he could press his big stethoscope to a little heart, peer into tiny dark eyes and intone dramatically, "Oh yes, she needs proper care as soon as possible," he stopped trying to get out of these brief examinations. Still, it wasn't very professional of him to examine that hairless guinea pig at the pub last week and then get so drunk he's not, um, _quite_ sure what happened between his fifth gin and tonic and waking up the next morning at 221B.

* Honestly the thought, when spoken, sounds foolish, not sexy. The thought, when put into action, got Sherlock ready to spread 'em in ten seconds flat. The concept of which we speak is John picking Sherlock up. It sounds unwieldy, difficult, sort of droppy. Instead it's John—slightly soft, rather understated, kind of quiet John—being so much damn stronger than he looks that when, as a joke, he swept Sherlock up into a bridal carry and then, you know, carried him, Sherlock got so turned on so quickly he grabbed hold of the good doctor's head right then and snogged him so hard John tripped, they fell…and basically didn't get up off the floor for at least twenty minutes.

* John can _move it._ And the thing that he can move is his tush. His bum. His pert, pert little arse, as Sherlock learned a few weeks after they first got together. The music in the bedroom had been loud, the coffee and tea hot—yes, John clutched a coffee in one hand, tea in the other, he knew they'd be on a case all night—and with two very engaged hands and a need to change clothes the good doctor had sorta…there's no other term for it…he'd kind of hula-d out of his jeans. Standing in the doorway watching, Sherlock remembers thinking: Dear lord the man knows what to do with his hips. Because the sensual side-to-side sway? The slow, deliberate rocking thrust? The arch of the back that showed off a sweet, sweet curve where back met bum? Well yes, it turned out they were indeed on a case all night, but it was Sherlock's fault they got to the Yard a good hour later than promised.

* Sherlock is sometimes a festival of bad habits. He won't wear a 'bunny suit' at crime scenes; he needs reminding to sneeze into the crook of his arm ('Into my _coat_ John?); and he's probably put the cap on the toothpaste exactly twice. Yet when they helped their landlady move her sofa from one side of the sitting room to the other, Sherlock donned the black elastic back brace Mrs. Hudson provided without a qualm. That he managed to drop the furniture on his foot has nothing much to do with anything.

* John was as surprised as anyone about the back brace thing, okay? No seriously, he almost feels a little depraved for liking it so much but oh lord _he likes it so much._ I mean just think about it: That long pale naked writhing body cinched in at the waist with something wide and tight and black and—oh god never mind don't think about it and whatever you do don't get John thinking about it, not right now, in broad daylight, with Sherlock thirty miles north on a case and not due back home until tomorrow morning. Dear god.

* Sherlock's not a subtle man. He once declared his love by carving John's initials into his own chest, so of course he didn't grasp the quiet elegance of the padlock at first. Actually, John had to literally sit him down on the Millenium Bridge, take his hand, and explain why he'd bought a perfectly good padlock, scribed it with their names, attached it to the bridge's railing, then given Sherlock the key as an anniversary gift. When Sherlock finally understood—the words 'symbol of my everlasting love' had figured prominently—he actually wanted to cry. He didn't understand that bit either, the being happy enough for tears thing. It's okay. John doesn't mind teaching him. He'll never mind.

* John knew his romantic gesture was going to sail completely past his sweetheart and that was fine. John also knew his own 'Lock might think the whole "locks of love" thing a bit sentimental, and that was fine, too. Many didn't, based off the other padlocks glittering on that railing. What John didn't expect was Sherlock blinking back tears, or the giddy fierceness with which his lover took the padlock's key and threw it as far as possible into the Thames. John also didn't expect that four minute, gently-swaying hug as a cold wind whipped their hair into knots, but he was touched by it just the same.

___A bit of a sex-focused Minutiae, how'd that happen? Well, t__hank you so much Ink Petrel for the link to the love locks, it utterly resonated with me and, apparently, John and Sherlock. You can see a photo of locks of love on my Tumblr atlinmerrick. tumblr. com or search Wikipedia for love padlocks. Thank you akaAuroraBorealis for the idea of John's sexy hula, and thank you to Livia Carica for asking how John feels being compared to Sherlock, and to Meredydd for suggesting that the good detective would feel very, very betrayed by sour candies._


	21. Chapter 21

* Sherlock Holmes remembers. A brain that can gather data at quite nearly the speed of light is of limited use if it can't hold the information long enough to catalog, collate, then conclude. For a long time the only things Sherlock bothered to remember were crime statistics, case facts, experiment results, and Mrs. Hudson's birthday. Then came John. Admittedly it took Sherlock awhile to make the shift, but eventually he did, storing away everything he knew John would want him to remember. And a few things John wished he wouldn't.

* The first John facts Sherlock tucked away for safe-keeping: The good doctor likes a scant half teaspoon of sugar in his tea. He wiggles his left foot a little when he's nervous. He'll often close his eyes when he's waiting—in a queue, or for someone to pick up their phone, for example. His tongue has no rhyme or reason, it'll dart out when he's sexually aroused, angry, bored. And John will sometimes say no when he means yes—"I don't want to have sex now, we're already late"—but every single time he does this saying-the-opposite-thing John bites both lips. And then? Well sometimes they're late, aren't they?

* Sherlock gets bored. Often. A lot. Oh hell, _all the time._ Left to his own devices Sherlock's coping mechanisms used to include heating objects in the microwave until they exploded, counting how many unobservant people would walk past a row of one pound coins left outside 221B's door, and driving up the bids for stolen Scotland Yard IDs on eBay. Fortunately then came John. The good doctor is the only one who can reel a bored Sherlock in, calm him down, and distract, entertain, and infuriate the man enough so that the blast radius of his ennui fails to encompass innocent bystanders, it only encompasses John. Which is usually the whole point really, and is often actively encouraged.

* Actually a bored doctor is worse than a bored consulting detective any day. No, seriously, it is. Because Sherlock does not try to _reel_ John in. He doesn't attempt to calm, distract, or entertain him. No, what Sherlock does is he _obeys_ him. Which is much, much worse. So when bored John says "Let's have a wanking contest," Sherlock takes off his pants right there in the sitting room. When John says "drink this entire bottle of absinthe with me," Sherlock fetches the glasses. And when a bored, very absinthe-drunk John says, "Let's go have sex behind Madame Tussauds," they actually do and frankly no one's bored for quite awhile. Especially after they get caught.

* Sherlock can be ridiculously compliant, and in ways that continue to amaze John. The one that surprises him the most is this: Sherlock goes to the doctor. If John books him for a physical, a prostate exam, a cholesterol check _he goes to each appointment._ So acquiescent is he that John's stopped going with him to make sure he, you know, goes. What the good doctor doesn't realize is that Sherlock's learned a lot from his lover about getting more flies with honey than with vinegar, and for every twenty minutes he spends being probed, tested, or scanned, he spends another twenty politely asking questions, discussing fluids, touching machinery and just generally doing what Sherlocks do: being a good-looking, curious pain in the arse.

* John has the dreadful habit of asking Sherlock random nonsensical questions. "What kind of car would you want if we got a car?" "What kind of dogs do you like?" And so on. But here's a secret: Sherlock doesn't know what sort of dog or car or beer he likes because he has little information about any of these things in his head, so sometimes (almost always) in answer he'll pick the first thing he sees and being as it's the only example of its type he knows, it really _is_ his favorite. That worried John when he found out. "Then I'm the only example of my type?" "Yes." "So if another came along you might prefer him." Silence. Silence. Silence. "There will never be another John Watson. Never another. _Not ever."_

* It's not surprising Sherlock doesn't deem poetry worthy of his hard drive. What is unexpected is that there are a half dozen Shakespearean sonnets in there, though John cares for only one, especially its final line, which Sherlock has recited to him many times over the years, soft words spoken against his mouth when John's down, grieving a friend, or feeling his age: "…yet in these thoughts my self almost despising, haply I think on thee, and then my state, like to the lark at break of day arising from sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate. For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings, that then I scorn to change my state with kings."

* John eats, but Sherlock picks. Not at his food, but the restaurant. And while John would probably select small, _clean,_ well-known establishments, Sherlock picks dives, tiny shops, unmarked doors. As a result John has had at least a hundred moderately all right meals, a dozen dinners that could without hyperbole be classified divine, seventeen that were nearly inedible, and in one case a meal that was left completely untouched after they both watched a rat run across the exposed rafters high above a fellow diner's head.

* Sherlock knows that John won't go out of his way to show off his body. He has evidence, should evidence be required: Those over-large jumpers. That's quite enough to be going on with but there's also those half-size-too-large jeans. Sherlock was fine with all of that until John, without a clean pair of trousers—tried on one of Sherlock's baggy pair for a lark. Do the words skin tight and _oh the fuck yes_ mean anything to you? Sherlock bought John a half dozen of those exact jeans right after and though the good doctor doesn't wear them often, when he does Sherlock walks a good three paces behind him. Oh at _least._

* Even from those first weeks together—well before they were lovers—John didn't require revelation regarding Sherlock's arse. He'd have had to be blind not to see those luscious curves, even tucked away under suit jackets. Yet John _was_ surprised the first time he saw Sherlock in jeans. Not so much because _dear lord those legs what the hell_ but because Sherlock walked differently when he wore them and—most importantly—when he thought-hoped-prayed John was watching.

* Sherlock used to be shy with John. Yes, shy. A little. Enough so that at the very beginning of their relationship he usually waited to be touched before he would touch, he waited to be kissed before he would kiss. Which was why Sherlock began caressing John at night, while the good doctor slept. Those touches, they were barely a brush of fingertips to night-warm skin, they were soft as a sigh across flesh. Some nights he'd while away hours just thinking, breathing, just carefully touching John. Up until then those were some of the best nights Sherlock had ever known.

* John calls them butterfly touches. Even after Sherlock's tentativeness faded, those soft caresses remained, though now Sherlock doesn't wait until John sleeps to indulge in them. The first time Sherlock paid him this sweet tribute John was sure he held his breath the entire time. There was something…religious about the devotion with which his lover touched him, something so tender and yes, kind, that John was left not only breathless but speechless. Even now, so many years later, Sherlock's long hands will gentle over him some nights for hours and oh yes, those are some of the best nights either of them has ever known.

_Sitting on the slopes of Hampstead Heath my friend C2 and I wondered what kind of car or dog or beer Sherlock would like, so of course John had to wonder, too. Thanks Caroline, that was such a lovely day. And thank you BuffyRowan for wondering what the boys think the right pair of jeans does for the other's bum. I know what _we_ think, but it was nice to check in with the boys._


	22. Chapter 22

* John loves long train trips. Has done since he was a little kid and the family used to take the train up to see his gran. So it was definitely John's idea to take the train to Brighton to hear the witness' statement first-hand. Not only would it give them an insight into a case that had everyone stumped, but it would get them out of over-heated London for a couple days. What could go wrong?

* Sherlock is not very good on a train. He likes them fine, they're like giant taxis really, but he tends to prowl and stare and try and show off for John. During this particular trip the showing off took the form of petty theft, with the great detective—over the course of two hours—stealing three glasses of wine for John from the drinks trolley in the first class compartment. John, of course, didn't know Sherlock wasn't paying for these indulgences until John asked his sweetie for a few quid for lunch and Sherlock shrugged and said he'd forgotten his wallet and then didn't understand why John went and got stroppy on him.

* As a general rule John doesn't get lost. Because John Watson can write down directions. And John can read a map. And John invaded a perfectly nice country once without getting lost there ever. And so John was very unprepared to admit that apparently he can't find his way out of a paper bag if he's more than an hour outside London. But they'd been looking for the witness' house for two hours and John was very close to admitting that he was pretty tired of the inside of this paper bag.

* Sherlock's got a brain the size of a watermelon and sometimes an ego to match, so as a general rule he'll never admit he gets lost. He carries a GPS-enabled smart phone for heaven's sake. He has a sensible map-carrying colleague-slash-lover for heaven's sake. He has a _brain the size of a watermelon_ for heaven's sake, seriously the size of a watermelon, one of those cool little icebox hybrids that fit neatly inside an icebo—never mind. _Never mind._ The point is they were lost. Clearly they were definitely lost. _Someone_ had to admit that they were lost.

* John is really very good at swearing, but like any other skill you only improve if you practice. Yet even he and his lover were startled at the new heights John reached as they passed St. Peter's Church for the third time and the good doctor realized _he could hear a train._ As in they had walked around Brighton for an hour—that's a lie, it had been almost two—and they were still within shouting distance of the rail station. At that point John stopped walking, took note of the sweat dripping down his back, realized his right shoe pinched, saw that Sherlock was flushed and looked queasy, and that was when John officially lost it. He rolled his shoulders, shook out his hands, and let loose a stream of bossy invective so blistering that two passing vicars not only stopped to listen, but cheered at the end. They also gave John directions when everyone had just calmed the hell down.

* Not surprisingly, Sherlock doesn't know what heat stroke feels like. So Sherlock didn't know he was getting it until he got it. It's not like John didn't tell him to "take that god damn coat off before you get heat stroke," because he did. Sherlock has got something of an ego however—we may have mentioned it—and so he ignored his sweetheart's sound advice until the muscle cramps started and the sweating and headache kicked in, but by then it was too late and just as John started to say something a lot like _I told you so,_ Sherlock vomited on his lover's shoes right there in the middle of the witness' driveway. But at least they'd found the witness' house, which was cool, right?

* John doesn't mind dolls. He even had a few when he was five or six or something. But John's always been a little unnerved by dolls that talk. The witness' house was full of such dolls. Big ones. Little ones. Black ones. White ones. Ones in costumes. A legion of them in frilly dresses. And more of them nude _and anatomically correct_ than was perhaps strictly necessary. But that would have been fine, actually, just fine, except instead of answering their questions directly the witness _let the dolls talk for him._ That was about the time John started to think "Witness? Hell no, suspect. Suspect. _Suspect."_

* Sherlock gets very grumpy when an interesting case turns out to not be very interesting at all. Especially if he's taken the time to travel nearly two hours by train to a place he's never been and never wanted to be and even more so if he gets heatstroke while he's there and lost—except in reverse order—and what could have been interesting case turns out to be clear cut because it turns out the witness—who they hadn't even known existed until yesterday—is so totally buck-fuck bonkers that not only did he admit to the crime, but he had his jointed, horse-haired legion _act the damn thing out for them._ Now Sherlock's held severed heads, human eyeballs, and Anderson's hand (once) (long story), and none of these gave him nightmares. But that little play with those little dolls? Sherlock slept with the bedroom lights on for a week. Don't tell him we told you.

* Excess caffeine does to John Watson what nerves do to others: It makes him shake, but it's an almost-drunk-tipsy-giddy sort of trembling that leaves him giggly and a bit shouty and kind of aggressive. That last bit manifest itself on the train trip home with John roaming randomly through each rail car, looking at his fellow passengers and trying to deduce the silliest things he could about them—his best one concerned a pregnant woman and a beach ball—before finally invading Sherlock's personal space, wedging himself down between the window and his lover, hip mashed so tight against hip that John could almost count the change in Sherlock's pocket.

* Of course John could count the change in Sherlock's pocket because there _was no change_ in Sherlock's pocket. There's almost always nothing in Sherlock's pockets but a scrap of paper money and clues. Those clues have consisted of deceased dermastid beetles (they are very, very good at cleaning dead flesh from bones); flakes of paint (lead? no lead? an alibi depended on it); a red rubber band (the teeth marks on it helped them catch the arsonist); and shards of a DVD (ultimately proving the suspect's violent temper). The thing one can find most often in Sherlock's trouser pockets, however, is John's cell phone. The only reason _that's_ in there is because Sherlock likes asking the good doctor to reach in and get it out.

* John spotted them first, boys in their late teens at the back of the train. One was a slender brunette with shaggy hair, the other short and tow-headed, and they were clearly besotted, dopey, giggly, punch drunk with love. For a good hour John surreptitiously watched them, wondering _what if._ What if he'd known Sherlock then, twenty years back? What if he'd had the chance to be there _before._ Would Sherlock smile more? Would he eat more, sleep more, _dream_ more? Would he wear so many scars? John would wonder these things all the way home. And quite possibly for the rest of their lives together.

* Sherlock watched those boys briefly too, but mostly he watched John watch them. He knew what John was thinking because he'd thought it too, yet Sherlock is grateful he didn't meet John twenty years ago. A fire barely contained, that younger man would have carelessly burned John's love to ash. This Sherlock, the one today? He may still be a tinderbox at times too easily lit, but at least now he sees. Sees what he'd have been so blind to then: beside him is a strong man, a wise man, a sometimes self-righteous creature who has, from the very start understood him, challenged him, taught him, loved him. What Sherlock sees now that he never would have then? He sees a man so very worth the waiting for.

_I'm lucky to live close enough to Livia Carica that we see one another every few months. The first time we met _Minutiae 12 _was the result. Our most recent visit, along with a new friend, included rail travel, getting lost, stealing wine, drinking too much caffeine, possible heat stroke, and becoming acquainted with some very interesting talking dolls. Naturally Livia suggested John and Sherlock should experience a few of these things too. The food poisoning from clams, however? That's for another story. Just so you know._


	23. Chapter 23

* Sherlock rarely remembers his dreams. Which is a good thing if this recent one is representative. Because Sherlock's brilliant, bristling, super-genius subconscious? Oh dear god the damned thing's positively _Victorian._ Under ordinary circumstances he wouldn't have even told John about the whole "I was a merman and you were a pirate, you caught me and we fell in love," debacle, but he'd groaned so loud when pirate!John started fondling his, uh, fishy bits (how? _how?)_ that he'd totally startled them both awake at two a.m. Though confessing the dream had actually taken Sherlock within sighting distance of embarrassed, it all worked out in the end, when John grabbed and then merrily plundered Sherlock's end.

* Okay, John would like to go on record right now, before the rumors get even worse. Yes, he shoved his tongue down Sherlock's throat in that Moroccan restaurant. Yes, he quite possibly moaned like a porn star while doing so. And maybe, just _maybe_ he humped Sherlock's leg a teensy bit at the same time. But John definitely did not push his hands down Sherlock's harem pants, grope his luscious bottom, or say (loud enough for anyone to hear), "Come to my tent at dusk you sultry creature, and there I will pleasure you in ways you can not imagine."

* Sherlock will do anything for a case, including impersonate a male belly dancer at a little Moroccan restaurant in Soho. While Sherlock expected to close the case quickly (he did), and expected to feel a teensy bit fabulous in the low-slung gauzy pants, the cropped little jacket, and jingly silver belt (he did), what Sherlock didn't expect was that these things—or maybe it was his sinuous undulations, he wasn't sure—would turn John on so powerfully that the good doctor actually paid Lestrade to let them use his police cruiser (tinted windows) out in the parking lot so that he could, um, pleasure them both in ways Sherlock had never imagined.

* While we're on the subject of sex, it turns out John likes honeycomb. No, he _seriously_ likes honeycomb. The first time he ate it he tried extracting the honey by poking his tongue in the little cells. Of course he couldn't but he tried and Sherlock watched because—well wouldn't you? When that squirmy tongue was quite done, when he gave up on what was never going to work, John switched to what did—sucking. About then Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, just a little. Only…you know, a little. That the sucking was accompanied by those thick, uh, sounds, which were then followed by _very careful_ biting, which was then accompanied with sweet little sighs…well, safe to say next birthday John is not getting a cake (as if Sherlock even knows where to buy one), he's getting honeycomb. Gift-wrapped with a consulting detective.

* While we're still on the subject of sex, Sherlock speaks just enough French, German and Indonesian to share scientific findings with a native speaker of any of those languages. He knows a fair bit of Latin—his favorite foreign tongue—as well, though he's found fewer opportunities to show off this knowledge. While John very much enjoys hearing Sherlock's tongue dancing over exotic phrases, he's not a fan in _that_ way per se. This probably has a lot to do with the fact that when Sherlock tells John _where_ and for_ how long_ and exactly _how hard_ John really, really, _really_ wants to understand exactly where, for precisely how long, and definitely how hard thankyouverymuch.

* Here's where we pretty much get off the subject of sex. So: John's a doctor. He's seen plenty of blood, piss, and vomit thank you; he's immune to the stuff. He _thought_ he was immune to the stuff. Then Sherlock did that thing with the scalpel right there in the middle of the kitchen before John'd had his breakfast or even a cup of coffee and the good doctor got so unexpectedly woozy he banged his head against the fridge and _Sherlock_ says he sort of passed out and all _John_ could say for the next half hour was "God damn it Sherlock, if you need blood for an experiment ask Molly because if you _ever_ and I mean _ever_ cut into your own skin like that again I will beat you absolutely senseless before I go unconscious, okay? Okay."

* Look, Sherlock's trying to be more normal. The good kind of normal where you banter or make meaningful small talk or…well, here's the thing, Sherlock's actually not very _good_ at being normal. It started innocently enough: John asked Sherlock what a group of bears was called. Sherlock sensed a trap, otherwise known as a pun, a jest, a joke, and because he's often bad at getting these Sherlock got stroppy. The problem was he did it in front of everyone gathered for Lestrade's anniversary party—twenty years on the force—and there may have been a detectivey barb thrown, and then there may have been a doctorly jaw clenched, and then—very oddly—Lestrade started tapping his glass with the side of his fork and John seemed to understand what that signified and, well, now you know the circumstances behind John and Sherlock's first kiss in front of half the Met. (A group of bears, by the way? A sleuth.)

* John means to write up each case they have, he really does. The problem is timing. They may have one case in six weeks, or they may blaze through fifteen in five days. That's when the good doctor becomes so pressed for time he simply jots down a possible title, convinced that later he'll remember the case details that accompany it. _Oh hell no._ Every one of John's moleskin notebooks contain scrawled lines that mystify him. If anyone currently living can tell him what _The Five Year Shrimp Cocktail_ refers to John will buy them a car. If there was ever a case belonging to _The Beauty of the Mandarin Cricket_ he'd dearly like to hear about it. And frankly he's astonished they had a case he planned on titling _The Deviant, the Demon, and the Detective_ and he hasn't one single sweet clue what it was about. He'd really like to know what that one was about. (He's pretty sure he knows who the detective is. If you're the deviant or the demon and you're reading this, please email John Watson through his blog. Cheers.)

* Sherlock is a show off, as anyone who's known him for more than five minutes can attest. Yet even he agrees he went too far that day. All he'd really needed to do was point, but instead of using words to explain a vital part of the case John eventually titled _Blue Murder,_ Sherlock decided to _show_ everyone by climbing up on to the live-sized model of a blue whale hanging majestically from the Natural History Museum's ceiling. If he hadn't done that, then gone and bent over to show how the thieves stashed the cash in the cetaceans blow-hole, he wouldn't have stepped on the end of his scarf and he wouldn't have slipped and fallen to the floor a dozen feet distant, and he wouldn't have landed on his bum and fractured his coccyx—which, frankly, takes some doing considering where that thing is located and the plushness he's got protecting it.

* His name was Oberon and 10-year-old John had loved that name so much he let the 11-year kiss him twice before deciding he didn't like kissing all that much. Her name was Envie and their fourth form romance was based on his adoration of her name, hers of his height. They broke up after a week. His name was Kyan and he'd made his infatuation for John clear that first day at uni. John seriously thought about returning his affections before realizing exactly why and giving himself a brief talking to. Her name was Bronte and the first thing she said after hello was "I hate all three of them." With a name like that John asked her out anyway. Their one hour date lasted an hour too long. His name was Sherlock, and by the time John met him he knew he had something of an unreasoned predilection so he did his best to resist. Fortunately John's best was simply dreadful.

* Sherlock doesn't know what put the thought in his head, which isn't surprising; if he tried following the genesis of every notion he has he'd never accomplish anything. The point is it doesn't matter why Sherlock started worrying about vasectomies, he just did and eventually that agitation led him to actually say something very like "—and I forbid you to ever get one, John." After the good doctor's eyebrows dismounted from his hairline and questions were asked and answers softly given it turns out that Sherlock, who has never, not once, believed he could, would, or should be anyone's father, nonetheless finds great comfort in the knowledge that, if he so wished, John H. Watson could.

* John sweetly said the words Sherlock so obviously needed to hear, and then the good doctor said a whole lot more. Because Sherlock's so very wrong. John's impossibly fragile, incredibly strong, amazingly brilliant, unreasonably perfect sweetheart would be a very good father. Why can no one else see that? Maybe because it's only John who's felt the gentility of Sherlock's hands as he brushes away a soldier's nightmare. And only John's heard the soft humming meant to put him to sleep when the flu (again) lays him low. And only John has heard the promise, whispered in midnight dark, "I will never leave you, I will never hurt you. I will never make you stay. But I will love you forever John. And even longer than that."

_First, please enjoy __go to my Tumblr to enjoy a sexy little image of a sexy boy belly dancer: atlinmerrick. tumblr. com. You may thank me later, after you've also Googled 'male belly dancers.' Next: Thank you __Cheeseisthebestevr__ for suggesting Sherlock needed to be a __merman. Thank you also __BuffyRowan for asking if Sherlock speaks foreign languages. Thanks Ellie Hell for wanting to know more about Sherlock nearly breaking his coccyx (as mentioned in Voice Over), and thank you Aurora Boreali for the request of John plus honeycomb, Sherlock (and I) thought that was a delicious idea._


	24. Chapter 24

* John never meant to come to London or to stay, but when he was nineteen and his grandfather died—literally at his feet—John became untethered, rootless, confused about his purpose and his place. So when the neighbor girl came to visit family and he and she suddenly got into it hot and heavy—"I've crushed on you since you could grow a damn _beard,_ John"—he soon followed her back to the city, hoping to feel tethered, rooted, certain. He was none of those things, not until he told her about his granddad. That's when she said the sort of thing people do when they want to help but don't know how—"Why don't you go to medical school?" Those few words, a flatshare in west London, and a beautiful tether nicknamed St. Bart's were when John Watson finally started to become…Doctor John Watson.

* Sherlock was sixteen the first time he spent the night alone in London. For two perfect days and nights he prowled the City's streets, roaming residential lanes in grey dawn, weaving through the business district at high noon, slinking down back streets full of tourists come dark. When it rained he lifted his chin to scent the air, when blue police lights flashed he watched (and sometimes followed), he listened to the cacophony of languages (counting sixteen once), and opened his mouth to taste clouds of cigarette smoke or the steam from someone's coffee. Everywhere he went he sought the places people gathered and he listened and watched and learned. And those two simple, perfect days were when Sherlock Holmes started to become…Sherlock Holmes.

* John's always been a bit of a voyeur. Even as a kid a well-lighted residential window never failed to draw his eye, and in a city as large as London there's always glass through which to gaze. Through one he'll see red-painted walls covered floor-to-ceiling in oak-framed paintings; in another, sconces with blue shades making a room glow twilight. House plants crowd out prying eyes here, delicate vases stand sentinel on a ledge there. And everywhere there are high ceilings and sheer drapes and discarded newspaper and tiny red tricycles and bottles of beer on low tables. John's no longer a child but he still looks, and though he rarely sees people, he always sees _life._ It makes him feel good. Safe. Warm. As it's always done.

* When he's not quite bored but also not quite busy, Sherlock heads to the Baker Street tube station. He takes the first train to arrive and rides it for however long he feels is right. At the resulting station he takes a second train on a different line and rides it for a similar time. At _that_ station he repeats the process. When at last he arrives at his destination, Sherlock finds his way above-ground and spends the next several hours walking in any direction that looks interesting. Sherlock's done this twice a year—sometimes more depending on his bored-to-busy ratio—for all the years he's lived in London. When he says he knows the City like the back of his hand Sherlock is so not even kidding.

* John has a superb sense of direction. _When he's alone._ He can walk for hours through London's crooked streets and at the end, turn around and take an entirely different route back to his point of origin. Unfortunately this skill goes out the damned window when he's with Sherlock and frankly John suspects foul play. "You're powering your brain off mine somehow," he said to Sherlock once, when he was _positive_ he knew a short-cut back to the Yard. "As if," his lover had snootily replied. Still, John takes comfort knowing that at least _he_ knows what he can do, even if no one else does. (Of course someone else _does_ know—Sherlock. But don't tell John, because if the good doctor had any clue how often his lover shadowed him the first year they were together John might have to retroactively break up with him in a fit of righteous pique.)

* Sometimes, when the flat is unbearably noisy in its silence, Sherlock grabs his scarf and coat—"Off out, John!"—pounds down the stairs like a skinny elephant, and simply sits on the stoop of 221B. There he'll soothe his brain calm with the sounds of distant sirens, the throaty growl of a nearby motorcycle, the footfalls of passing pedestrians. Only once he's heard the metal chatter of a dog's leash, the squeal of lorry breaks, the rubber hiss of tyres, only once he's deduced the proximity of a shout, lifted his eyes to the flutter of a pigeon, and gone so cold his fingers ache, only once his city has filled his mind with her and so emptied it, only then does Sherlock rise, go back inside to the warm and quiet flat, and finally finish whatever it was he was doing.

* It was the butterflies that at last did it for John—thousands upon thousands of them, fleet and foolish, spangled in rainbows, as delicate as dust. The museum's temporary exhibit featured living butterflies pale as snow or black as soot, some vibrant as neon, others as rare as a quiet day in London. Though cases had taken them to the Natural History Museum a half dozen times, John vowed that this time they'd go for pleasure. Yes. Well. John _tried _to experience pleasure, but dear lord Sherlock was a pain. That is, until the good doctor pushed his sweetheart into a tour of the museum's pickled, jarred, grimly fascinating zoological specimens. Four hours and seven ignored verbal threats later John had to finally physically pick Sherlock up—you _know_ that he can—to actually get the man out of the building.

* Sherlock will tell you he never even _heard_ those seven so-called threats, and that even if he had it was patently unfair of John to point-blank _ask _Sherlock to entertain himself and _then _get stroppy when he did. Because really, he could have talked to the curators all day just about the leeches they had on display—especially the fascinating one he knew they still used in British hospitals to prevent clotting. And never _mind_ the magnificent display of parasitic worms and turbellaria in the collection which were, bar none, quite the best Sherlock had ever seen. And while it wasn't entirely relevant to any of his studies, Sherlock had just started asking questions about the partially digested head found in the belly of a sperm whale when John just came right on over, _picked him up,_ and walked off with him. If Sherlock had been inclined to embarrassment he's pretty sure he'd have quite possibly chosen that moment to, you know, be it.

* When John was deployed to Afghanistan he knew he'd be happy to make a difference, that he'd relish learning about Afghan culture, and that he'd sorely miss his friends. What John didn't know was that as the years passed and one deployment turned into another, and then a third, that he'd start to miss the simplest things about his city. That he'd miss winter-grey clouds, and sudden summer rain, and a sky that never quite went dark, even at midnight. That he'd miss spotting Big Ben from unexpected vantage points. That he'd miss walking along Regent's Canal and looking at brightly painted long boats. And that he would miss—so much it was an actual pain—the big, bossy geese in Hyde Park and the silly, brave little squirrels that crawl up your trouser leg and take peanuts from your hand.

* Doddering. Hidebound. Rigid. _Boring._ For a long time that was how Sherlock described his city and its people. And then a case took the good detective briefly to America, where he knew they respected the new, the cutting-edge, the best, the brightest. Which, it turns out, was exactly the problem. Because the human brain? It is not new. It is not cutting edge. It is not, simply put, a _computer._ And so when Sherlock discussed deduction, they spoke of software. When Sherlock talked of clues, they countered with databases. When Sherlock said "It's been my experience," they blinked at him and said you can't quantify that. When Sherlock returned home less than a week later (he'd solved the case of course, no mainframe required), the slightly chastened detective completely dropped doddering, hidebound, and rigid from his lexicon. Boring, however, well that one was here to stay.

* When John settled in London that first time, he did every free, touristy thing he could think of. He sat on the steps of St. Paul's and listened to its clock chime the quarter hour, then crossed the Millennium bridge and confused himself senseless with the Tate's modern art. He listened to jazz in the National Theatre foyer, got an earful at Speaker's Corner in Hyde Park, and was a bit bored watching the changing of the guard. He attended free lectures, recitals, and plays, he went to galleries, museums, and parks. The funny thing is, John never really knew the city until he began running through her night streets beside a dark-haired man, both of them moving too fast to see much, but never too fast to feel—feel her old pavement beneath their feet, her rain on their faces, her winter cold deep down in their welcoming bones. And finally, to feel the fast, sweet pounding of one another's hearts.

* Cathedrals, crowded street markets, wood-paneled pubs; lavish gardens, stone towers, priceless royal jewels—Sherlock's never cared for the famous treasures of his treasured city. He's never had the urge to watch the Ceremony of the Keys, go to the aquarium, or feed the wildlife in the park. And then came John. Sherlock _still_ doesn't want to do any of those things, and he'll always complain lavishly when John makes him do any of the above and more, but frankly he's mostly keeping up appearances. Because here's a not-very-well-kept secret: Right from the start and for all of their lives together, Sherlock has always, always loved looking at his beautiful, raucous city through John's gentle, beautiful eyes.

_This London-centric Minutiae brought to you courtesy of the fact that I'm in London. As in, um (all caps, italicize, repeat) LONDON LONDON LONDON. Okay. Sorry. Calm, I'm calm. While here I realized I rarely write about John and Sherlock's city, and yet she's a vital, living part of them, so I thought we should know a little of how they see her and what she means to them (and, by extension, of course, to me). And while here, I've unexpectedly learned some people don't know how to say the title of this series, and so here you go, Minutiae is pronounced: Min-oo-sha. And, by the way, this makes 290._


	25. Chapter 25

* Sherlock's always been fascinated with the gritty, graphic, or unvarnished. If a couple are yelling at one another on a street corner he'll stop to listen if the invective is inventive and the emotions high. Once they came across a bug-riddled squirrel carcass in Hyde Park and Sherlock looked that thing over for a solid ten minutes. More recently John stumbled and actually skinned his knee—swore like a sailor, too—and as he made soothing tsk-tsk sounds Sherlock also murmured, "Stay still a minute won't you? I've been studying fibrin and want to see how long your wound takes to clot and—what? Why are you swearing at _me_ now?"

* Of course it was John's idea to go to the open-air play in Regent's Park, and really, he must have known Sherlock would get bored. He also must've had an inkling of how Sherlock would cope with that boredom because it was June and still Sherlock had brought his damned great coat. Yet somehow the good doctor was surprised when Sherlock pressed his back to John's chest, scootched low between his thighs, then covered both their legs with the coat. It wasn't even a minute later John heard the groan. _Is __he__…__?_ and good god he was. For a long time he was, keeping them both waiting, nerves strung tight, pulse pounding, breath short. It's been over a year since then and John still can't remember what play they saw.

* Sherlock hates being bored. Sherlock loves to feel John's heart galloping in his chest. That's why Sherlock does sexual things in public. It's never boring, and John's response is almost always so lavish you can see the pulse thrumming in his throat from a metre away. The moment he threw the coat over their spread legs he knew John knew what was going to happen. Sherlock almost laughed out loud at the mighty kick of the good doctor's heart, then the steady hammering of it right up against the back of his head. By the time Sherlock came—during some robust musical number—John was humming-sighing-groaning softly in his ear.

* Apparently thirty hours without sleep, sex during a search on a long boat, and solving a case himself is an excellent way to get John drunk, and give Sherlock a contact high. It's the only way to explain why the good doctor dragged his lover through the Camden Town markets afterward, treating him like a dress-up doll—and Sherlock let him. For two hours John prowled cramped stalls, tarting his sweetheart up in corsets and braided coats, decking him out in cybergoth t-shirts and pornographic gloves. Though pretty much everything worked on Sherlock's long, saucy body, the only things that came home with them were bondage trousers (zips in very interesting places), big black boots, rings for every long finger, and a heavy velvet choker with a lock charm. The only thing left on the actual 'Lock by night's end, however, was the choker, the boots, and a satisfied smile.

* Sherlock's definition of _not __boring_ has expanded since meeting John. Before the good doctor, the consulting detective would never have endured watching someone slower than himself solve a case. After? Well, while Sherlock could have figured out who smuggled the paintings into London via canal boat, how the Hawley lock had been disabled, and why a dozen swans had been involved, it was somehow very _not __boring_ to watch John do it instead. It got even less so after the good doctor discovered a hidden cache of heroin in a place Sherlock never thought to look, worked out how the suspect had been in two places at once, and finished by tumbling Sherlock onto the suspect's water bed (on a canal boat?) and doing to him that thing they'd talked about once but had never actually done but certainly will be doing again because It. Was. So. Not. Boring.

* John's online more than Sherlock, what with the blog, electronic leg work, and simply whiling away boredom while his lover's in the kitchen slicing something open, sewing it closed, dunking it in acid, or heating it on the hob until it catches fire, has to be thrown out, and the whole process begun again. Anyway, the point is John's online a lot and turns out to be wildly susceptible to fads. He's messed around on MySpace, frittered away weeks on Facebook, and tried to figure out the whole point of Twitter. His latest addiction is Tumblr, if you must know, and he has on more than one occasion sat down 'for just a minute' and then looked up to discover the heating's long since gone off, there's a consulting detective snoring on the sofa, and he has no clue what he just did with the last three hours.

* Sherlock rarely gets online for anything other than work. Honestly, he can think of only one instance where he used the internet for recreational purposes and it wasn't technically he who did it, it was Mrs. Hudson and in the interest of keeping his landlady out of the flat for another twenty four hours—until the electrician showed up to fix the hob, which he'd managed to set on fire—Sherlock let Mrs. Hudson 'do his colors.' The whole thing took over three hours, and Sherlock learned most blues suit his complexion, grey washes him right out, and he should also wear checks more often. The fact that Sherlock later put some of these tips into practice is something he will never, never, _not __ever_ admit. As a matter of fact the one time Mrs. Hudson mentioned it again, in front of John, a month later, Sherlock feigned brief insanity. It says much that no one doubted for even a moment that he might possibly be losing his mind.

* John was surprised to learn that watching his home burn eventually became boring. No, no, that's not right. Not at all. All six times the kitchen was aflame John was very not bored. No, the part that always later filled him with ennui, _after_ the shouting, _after_ discharging another fire extinguisher, and _after _the aggravation of cleaning the mess that had—_again__—_boiled over onto the stove, was the exhaustion, the incipient migraine, and his utter inability to form complete sentences without saying more swear words than actual, you know, words. But eventually the good doctor was sure he'd solved the problem: He bought a glossy, pricey, high-tech stove top that was, possibly, even smarter than Sherlock.

* Oh Sherlock loved the new hob. At first. It had a smooth surface so he could drag things around. The controls were precise, refined, and let him adjust the temperature a single degree at a time. And best of all, it contained sensors that detected if (when) liquids boiled over for longer than fifteen seconds, wherein the stove automatically shut itself off. However Sherlock completely lost respect for the appliance when he discovered this feature could not temporarily be disabled and that the sensors did not register mucus as a fluid so the hob did not shut off that time that he—never mind. _Never __mind._ Suffice to say it turned out that their stupid new "smart" stove could catch fire just as easily as the old one.

* John regularly contemplates not paying their electric bill any longer so that all of the appliances prone to burning simply don't work. Some days he will spend hours daydreaming about it. Those days are very restful.

* Sherlock remembers things he'd do better to forget. Old words. Old wrongs. Old pain. It used to be that when he fought, with anyone—his brother, some idiot at the Met—he'd bring up trite grievances, cruel facts, or damn well make shit up if he had to. Then he did it to John, not once, not twice, but a dozen times before he realized that John did not fight back. If what Sherlock said was true, John would let his lover sucker punch him again, and again, and again. Eventually those jabs, every damned one, hit _Sherlock_ in the chest. That's when he learned that sometimes a man _can_ change. Sometimes he can become better than he is, without one word said or one hand raised. And sometimes he actually wants to.

* John doesn't hold grudges. He'll never dredge up old wrongs, reopen old wounds, or keep score. When he's done being angry, he's damn well done. For the good doctor rage is cathartic—which may be why he lets himself be so easily riled. Physician heal thyself. Once John's told you off, listened to your reply, told you off again, and then maybe gone for a walk to cool down, he'll come back and possibly apologize, take you out to dinner, kiss your pretty cupid's bow mouth, or do all three and then spread his legs for you after. Like we said, John Watson does not hold grudges.

_This Minutiae ("min-oo-sha") brought to you by the letter 'b' and, apparently, not!bored. Oh, and if you would like to know what bondage trousers look like head on over to my Tumblr (atlinmerrick. tumbrl. com) because really, everyone should know what bondage trousers look like. With big black boots. After that you and your fertile imagination are blissfully on your own. You're welcome._


	26. Chapter 26

* John was not a small child. As a matter of fact, until he was about thirteen he was pretty much the same size as every other boy his age. And then puberty hit. The _other _boys. Well no, that's not true. While adolescence also came for John over the next few years, doling out a soft, red-blond beard, a deeper voice, and broad shoulders, it was quite miserly with verticality. John did grow taller but puberty's largesse went so far and no further. By the time he was five feet six and three quarter inches (five foot seven, we'll just say that okay, it's much easier), this particular dole dried up completely and, however hard he wished it—and for years he did wish it—for John further inches cameth not.

* Sherlock bleached his hair blond when he was thirteen. It was part of an experiment though no one—including Sherlock—knew that at the time. The things the emerging detective was unconsciously analyzing included: How many people will even notice? (Answer: A little over half.) How many will be upset? (Surprising answer: A few teachers; mummy and daddy just shrugged.) Will anyone like me more? (Answer: A Goth girl two forms ahead of him and the neighbor's toddler.) Will anyone like me less? (Answer: Yes, all of the schoolmates who already delighted in more ammunition with which to torment freaks like Holmes.) Will I feel normal, better, _sane?_ (Answer: No, mostly no, and not for many years yet.)

* You'll be surprised to learn that John Watson came to the whole _swearing_ thing late in life. Until he was thirty-four years old the good doctor was rather of the opinion that only those without a full command of the English language resorted to frequent profanity. And then the good doctor broke his _fucking_ toe in basic training and it had hurt like a _son of a bitch,_ and as if that wasn't enough, it took the _god damn _thing twice as long to heal as it should have because John _bloody_ well lost all ability to locamote like a normal human being. That meant he often stubbed the _pissy_ little toe on chair legs, over uneven pavement and, so help him, against his own calf once as he masturbated in bed. Actually that was when he partially broke the _cock-sucking_ thing a second time, if you really want to _fucking _know.

*Sherlock's got a lot of acreage to cover. From top of head to soles of feet, there's quite a bit of _there_ there. That's why, since early adulthood, he's had the tendency to cover that somewhat extensive canvas in things that feel good. Silk when warranted, extremely fine grade wool, linen, and cotton, and, quite recently, velvet. Only John knew about the velvet for awhile because, despite talking a good game, Sherlock does care what people think and if you think they think he's posh and fussy now, you try decking him out in velvet and listen to the whispers. Of course he got over that fast after John bought him a black velvet suit and then was so responsive to Sherlock _in_ it that the good detective went on something of a velvet jag for the next year. And yes, they do make velvet underthings, in case you were wondering.

* John would like to go on record that he never said he _wanted _a dog and he did not actually go looking for a dog and the fact that they found and therefore accidentally _had_ a dog for an entire twenty six hours should not be taken so damn personally by one particularly picky consulting detective who claims that the dog not only ate his best shoes, peed on his dressing gown, and undressed him with his red-rimmed eyes, but he also completely ruined a very delicate experiment that will take _ages_ to restage due to the critical shortage of red rye smut (it's an actual _thing _you know) the lack of another willing volunteer for the inoculation (sometimes the Irregulars talk amongst themselves and it's of no help to Sherlock _at all)_ and frankly the now complete lack of Sherlock's interest. So yes, John would like to go on record and say that all he said for god's sake was, "Mike's new dog is cute, don't you think?"

* Sherlock often says no to sex. Okay, not _often_ really because John's a smart man—he can tell when he'll swing and miss, so on the days when Sherlock's likely to say no, John just doesn't swing. Still, sometimes Sherlock can go weeks without so much as a morning erection and of course those times almost always coincide with an interesting case, a riveting experiment, or another bout of flu so heinous that even if Sherlock wanted to fuck or be fucked he would decline because at those times he's so congested he would probably expire from lack of oxygen before he got halfway through his orgasm.

* After a week or so of no sex John'll often send scouts out over Sherlock's body, usually when his lover is asleep. Sherlock taught him that: the delicate, sneaky art of turning your lover on while they dream and snore ("I do _not_ snore John."). He will start gently, will John, with butterfly touches over Sherlock's hip and shoulder, belly and bum, then progress to more focused contact at nipples and cock. Sometimes Sherlock will wake quickly and whisper a soft _no. _Sometimes he'll sleep on, waking only when he's become so hard that quite probably there's no longer enough blood to fuel brain and therefore dreams. The best times are when Sherlock shifts with a languid sigh and, without opening his eyes, he opens his legs. That's when John sends in reinforcements in the form of mouth or cock.

* On Sherlock's bedside table you will find many things: A pocket magnifier, sometimes a glass of water, a pad and paper, case notes, lube, a mobile, and books. Of the books you'll find the expected tomes on chemistry and anatomy. You'll find books on bees, bruise patterns, and botany. What few expect to see are the outlandish fictions where every character has an arch-enemy, yarns whose titles begin with _The True Unvarnished Memoires of _or _The Scandalous Tale of._ Sherlock first started reading such books in his early teens, to learn how people think (which tells you a lot about how Sherlock thinks, if you think about it), but now he's in his mid-30s and though he doesn't need to read such rubbish any more he couldn't stop if you damn well paid him.

* John has a habit. He's not sure if it's a bad one or a good one but either way he's got it. _It_ is a tendency to pick up another person's mannerisms. Just once in awhile mind you, and usually the trait is innocuous. He can always get rid of it if he concentrates. Mannerisms John's unconsciously picked up and consciously put aside over the years include Mycroft's proclivity for punctuating his pontifications with the arch of one brow; Greg's habit of biting at his lower lip when he's trying not to smile; the little huff Mrs. Hudson does when you're being particularly exasperating; and Sherlock's tendency to clasp hands beneath chin as he talks. The habits John has unconsciously accrued and of which he is still unaware include Sherlock's tendency to run fingers through his hair until it's a froth of tangles, Sherlock's propensity to stand with one hip cocked to the side as he talks, and Sherlock's chin-down-through-the-lashes gaze, the one that says "Get over here you gorgeous creature, I'm hungry and you look delicious."

* It seems a very obvious question once you think about it: Where on earth did Sherlock get that coat? The answer also seems obvious: From a pricey shop where the grey-haired proprietor not only remembers your name without prompting, but every last one of your measurements, too. Of course Sherlock will be the first to tell you that what seems obvious is not always correct. That coat that fits Sherlock so perfectly? The one whose collar seems tailor-made to rise like a shield behind his long neck? The one that when buttoned not only protects him from the winter cold but conforms precisely to his angles and his curves? That coat? Yeah, he bought it from one of his Irregulars. Paid a hundred quid for it too, even though the bloke asked just ten. Both of them were pretty chuffed with the deal. Now his _scarf?_ That was hand made and cost eighty pounds. Go figure.

* John Watson sometimes wonders where he'd be and what he'd be doing if he'd gone through a different park that day. Russell Square hadn't really been on his way to anywhere because that day John hadn't really been _going_ anywhere. He told that to Mike once and Stamford had laughed. "Really? Because you were moving head down and straight ahead, like a tank." Walking doggedly and inextricably toward his fate, John later decided. If it hadn't been that day it would have been the next. Or the week after. Or the month after that. Because there is no universe, no timeline, no avenue down which John can walk in his imagination and not find along that path a quite tall, ridiculously beautiful, often infuriating, always brilliant consulting detective. A man that would utterly change his life and at the same time make it again worth living.

* Sherlock Holmes has become a legend in his own lifetime. Not many people can say that. Turns out not many people would want to. Because with such status comes unreasonable demands, expectations, disappointments. Yes, sure, genius _does_ need an audience, but _this _particular genius needs an audience of one, just one. A short, tough, brave audience that will cheer him—"brilliant" "incredible" "amazing"—but will also tell him he's rude, bit not good, an idiot. As it turns out, Sherlock's not that interested in living up to legend. But today, tomorrow, and for every day that he lives, this great man will strive to be good, and he'll try to live up to the demands and expectations of an audience of one—a brilliant, legendary, ex-army doctor whose name, we think, you may already know.

_This is 314 of a planned 312 Minutiae (min-oo-sha). Allow me to pause briefly while I flail in happy disbelief and also make sounds only dolphins can hear._

_There. Done. Let me say that 1) you have been so wonderful, sharing your ideas for this series and 2) you'd have to give me something absolutely fucking fabulous to stop me writing these, and his name would need to begin with B and damn well end with Atch. Since I doubt that'll happen anytime soon do please settle in, sit tight, share all the beautiful ideas you have, then be prepared to be reading odd, made-up facts about John and Sherlock for a good, long while. Thank you._


	27. Chapter 27

* Sherlock started it. Sure John would continue it later, but it was Sherlock who first crammed his not unbulky body down into John's armchair _while __it __was __occupied._ The first time it happened the good doctor started to get his stroppy on—personal space and all that—but then Sherlock shifted. Wriggled. Turned a little. Eventually the big infant was sitting sideways between John's thighs, knees and elbows tucked in like some sort of lanky bird settling into the nest, and with a relieved sigh, turned to watch the telly with John.

* Let it be known to all here assembled and henceforth documented for the record that John Watson is completely and totally taken off at the knees by cute. The kind of cute that comes from six foot, twelve-and-a-half-stone men who have no concept of personal space, but who can nevertheless apparently be so endearing while they squeeze into your chair with you that you can't help but loosely wrap your arms round their back, then sort of rest your chin on their knees and yes, in just exactly that position apparently watch nearly three straight hours of mostly mediocre telly in perfect contentment.

* Sometimes even Sherlock is a teensy bit surprised by his own brain. Yes, he expects the brilliant mass of goo up there to gather data via his eyes, nose, hands, ears, and on more occasions than you'd believe, his mouth. And yes he expects it to synthesis the information thus gathered, quickly presenting him with a clear picture of intent, motive, crime, and its manner of completion. Yet even Sherlock was amazed at the leap of logic it took for him to connect the Swedish diplomat's narcolepsy with her H1N1 vaccination, thus not only curtailing international incident, but succinctly explaining why she went face first into the Brazilian ambassador's crotch at the embassy dinner.

* Lestrade takes anti-anxiety medication. Not often, no, just when the job gets to be a bit too much. The detective inspector hadn't popped a single pill for nearly a year—through seven murder investigations, five court cases, three sackings, and one ill-fated liaison he'd rather not talk about. But the snakes, dear god the _snakes._ The second he walked into the victim's flat he started groping for his pills and it didn't make _anything_ better that John Watson showed up not five minutes later and nearly clapped his hands with glee. "Snakes! I love snakes." The good doctor proceeded to rattle off the names of eight kinds of rattler present, four sorts of black snake, three kinds of brown, and one whose bite was "so brilliantly poisonous you'd be dead before you hit the floor." Lestrade took twice his usual dosage for the whole of that case.

* Sherlock's very first memory is of Mycroft and soup. Sherlock was four and down with the flu, feeling feverish and sad and hungry. Mycroft had sat on the child's bed cross-legged and spooned soup from a cup into Sherlock's little mouth and said things to make his baby brother laugh. Eventually the timing got a bit jumbled and Sherlock swallowed and laughed at the same time, snorting tomato soup up his nose. He cried for nearly ten minutes, until Mycroft kind of shoved tomato soup up his own nose, flailed wildly, and pretended to fall down dead.

* John's first memory is of sitting in a school room on a grey morning and trying to remember how old he was. Because today was his birthday and he was going to tell the teacher when she called his name. Though John couldn't quite remember his new age, he _was _a very smart boy, so he stuck his hand under the desk and counted his fingers: Five! He was five! John doesn't remember what he said to the teacher, or what presents he got later at his party, but he does remember putting his little hand under the desk and counting those fingers and feeling very smug that he was _five!_

* The first time Sherlock saw it he hiccupped, burped, giggled, then said, "Thith ith thimply _thtunning,_ John." Yes, as you may have deduced, the consulting detective was quite drunk the first time he saw John's tented arch. As if such a extraordinary fingerprint pattern wasn't rare enough, the good doctor went ahead and sported that beauty on his left _thumb._ Fewer than one in a thousand can claim such a magnificent curiosity. Such a magnificent eventually _tiresome_ curiosity, actually, because really, how long can a man be expected to sit still while his lover takes his fingerprints over and over and over? Fortunately Sherlock made up for the tedium after an hour by sucking the (soy-based) ink from John's hands, then going on to suck a few other things for awhile, too.

* John is starting to wonder if he shouldn't just get a bit of therapy or something, because his predilection for seeing Sherlock dressed up, bedecked, pierced, coiffed, marked, or made up is beginning to border on a perhaps-depraved fetish. Exhibit Q8 (at this point): Mehndi. For a case he and Sherlock had to have their hands and feet painted with henna paste. John found the process interesting, relaxing, then slightly tedious. And then he'd looked at Sherlock. Being as we are among polite company the things the good doctor said out loud, spontaneously, in public, in front of four strangers and one bemused artist, can not be repeated here.

* Sherlock, as has been noted, will often overdo what merely needs doing, and the whole henna thing is an example. Because honestly, in addition to decorated hands and feet, that ridiculous creature did _not_ need to have a fetching and complex swirl of mehndi applied from chin to cheek to temple. And he didn't need the pretty stain of it filigreed over his bare belly. And for god's sake it certainly wasn't necessary for him to show it off _that_ way for _that_ long and then flirt with the suspect while the man sort of groped and stared. But Sherlock did all these things and more (it was only later John learned about the toe rings and faux nipple piercing) and the good detective justified it all because, of course, they caught the serial arsonist in the act and _so __there._

* John's trying to cut back on swearing. It's not that anyone's asked, because no one did. As a matter of fact John's sworn a blistering blue streak in front of everyone he knows a half dozen times—Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and the neighborhood grocer Mr. Merrick included. Yet John knows he ought not to be quite so profane and that if he puts his mind to it he can beat this habit. Except it would _bloody_ well help if Sherlock stopped accidentally putting _fucking_ infected mucus in their dinner, and also it would be nice if John didn't get a _damn _pipette up the arse because someone was culturing Petri dishes in the _sodding _bed again, and so help him if he has to cut away one more singed patch of Sherlock's _fucking_ hair because—oh to _hell _with it. There's no way John's giving up swearing any time soon.

* Sherlock has definite ideas on what he wants done with his body when he dies. Unfortunately those ideas change every other year or so. Once he wished his mortal coil to be stuffed and displayed. Then he desired that his brain go to the Royal College of Surgeons and the rest of him to the Body Farm in America. Most recently he asked for his remains to be cremated and then sprinkled in an orchard or a garden in full flower, anywhere there are bees. No matter what his lover asks John always says the same thing: Yes, of course he'll do it, no problem. But John Watson's a liar, because here's something the good doctor has no intention of doing: Outliving Sherlock.

* Repeated exposure to death and dying has left John Watson disinclined to think about death and dying. The good doctor does not have a will, hasn't prepared advanced directives, won't entertain even one question about how his loved ones should remember him when he's gone. Sherlock understands but of all the people who love John, he's the one most plagued by these questions. Because their answers even the great detective can't deduce for certain and the man already intends on following John's desires to the letter. Actually, that's rather understating it. Sherlock plans to make respecting John's final wishes his priority, his purpose, his religion.

_Livia Carica wanted to know more about John and Sherlock sharing the armchair, as mentioned in "The First Time…They Danced," while AfroGeekGoddess' requested a bit about their first memories, and kakareen something with fingerprints. What minutiae (min-oo-sha) do you want to know about our boys? (P.S. I may or may not have started a fic about Sherlock and that mehndi. And the possibility of a narcolepsy-H1N1vaccine connection? I totally did not make that up.)_


	28. Chapter 28

* John would like it known to _anyone _who happens to be _listening _that he can dunk _whatever he pleases_ into his damn tea _whenever he likes,_ and uppity consulting whatsits don't have any sodding say in the matter. Just because _some_ people (who don't even _finish_ their tea half the time) think it messes up the flavor when you dip biscuits in it doesn't mean _other people_ have to do what they say. And Jaffa cakes do _not_ make tea taste "stupid," by the way. Did you ever even _try_ them?

* Sherlock would like it known that some things are an abomination. Marmite, for example. And also dried bananas. Unbuttered peas, soda water, and tamales are also hateful, as is peanut butter, those nice candies that turn sour when you're not looking, and biscuits dunked in tea, in particular _Jaffa cakes, Jaffa cakes, Jaffa cakes._ And frankly, if _some _doctors don't stop dipping those spongey little atrocities in to perfectly lovely cups of tea, making the kitchen smell like a marmalade factory exploded, _some _detectives are going to stop kissing them and also start sleeping on the sofa.

* Well you know what's really an outrage, since we're on the topic, mister? All those weird things _some _men put in _their _mouth. Seriously, normal people do not deduce via their tongue, not if they want to _live _for very long. Who needs to taste blood to see if it's blood, for example? Who sticks their spidery finger in the goop and stuffs it in their mouth like an infant? A first year medical student—who's _blind—_could tell by touch alone. If you have to do more, smell it, smear it between the fingers, just let it sit a minute or two until it turns brown. That's what _normal_ people do when they deduce, you know.

* "Normal" people can't deduce what they had for breakfast, not with a butter-smeared knife in one hand and half-eaten toast in the other. Speaking of which, it's been weeks since certain doctors fed certain consulting detectives anything by hand and certain consulting detectives are thinking about _not eating_ for a few days because then maybe certain doctors would finally get the hint and feed certain consulting detectives with their manly, pretty little hands. Certain consulting detectives would very, very much like that if it's not too much trouble.

* First off, certain consulting detectives can stop saying certain consulting detectives, it's confusing certain ex-army doctors. Second, since when do consulting detectives worry about being too much trouble? They certainly weren't worrying last week when they took that case at the last minute, the one that came in at three in the sodding morning—they don't call it the _time of ghosts_ for nothing you know—and remember it was _John _who ended up posing as a prostitute down along the atrociously-misnamed Grace Street, and it was _John_ who got pinched so many times he was black and blue after.

* Sherlock would like to point out that that excellent case took all of three hours and netted them four thousand pounds—not counting the couple hundred _John_ got when that man paid for the privilege of rubbing up against him—and remember it was _John _who bought the celebratory whiskey afterward and it was most definitely John who kept spiking their coffees as they sat outside Starbucks enjoying their own genius, and it was most certainly _John_ who suggested they "do something totally out of character, what do you say, just for fun?" but it was definitely _not_ John who ended up with two pierced nipples, a nose ring, and blond highlights, wearing absolutely nothing but "shit-kicker boots," a lace thong, leather shorts, and false eyelashes.

* Frankly just hold on a minute okay? John Watson needs hospital care for the mild myocardial infarction he had just _remembering_ that entire gorgeous getup. Okay. Fine. Good. Now…if Mr. Sherlock Holmes—who maybe _isn't_ such a prat sometimes—would be willing to put those boots and that black lace thong back on, John Watson is more than willing to take his manly, pretty little hands and press Sherlock down on the bed with them and then the good doctor will feed Sherlock buckwheat honey and Paragon chocolates and turbinado sugar cubes from his very own growly mouth.

* Now that Sherlock thinks about it he's not sure if he wants to indulge the doctor in this matter at this juncture. Come to think of it, the doctor has called that most noble of men _several _unnecessary names today of which prat may be the nicest. _And,_ contrary to popular belief, certain tyrannical ex-army doctors can _not_ just call _Sherlock Holmes_ a ninny, a lummox, a twerp (what does that even mean?), an arse clown, and an idiot and expect that certain _dignified_ consulting detectives are simply going to buy them Chinese dinners and then get on all fours after, bum in the air and a bit in the teeth. Not without a _very _good apology first, anyway.

* John is an idiot, a ninny, a nincompoop, and a twerp (a silly or annoying person) and for that he is sorry. It's just that when the fire alarm went off—_again—_at midnight—he now knows it wasn't Sherlock's fault (this time)—John was 1) startled from his sleep and 2) taken out of a _very_ lovely dream where Sherlock was pressing him up against one of the sitting room windows and pumping away deep and slow in John's arse—(Who knows! Maybe John's standing on something to make him taller, all right?)(Sorry.)—anyway, so John wants to apologize to Sherlock because he's right, all those names that John yelled were uncalled for and just plain mean.

* Sherlock does not like this strange-ache-in-the-stomach thing John can make him feel, you know. It's a good feeling _and_ a bad one and it's exceedingly _confusing._ However, Sherlock thanks John for his apology and also Sherlock is sorry he set off the fire alarm three times—okay, five—earlier this week, it was an accident every time and Sherlock had no clue those things go off even if there's no fire. (It would have been helpful if John had told him he replaced the old alarms with _identical_ new ones that also sense carbon monoxide, then maybe Sherlock would not have done that experiment five times with all the windows closed. Did Sherlock say he's sorry, he can't remember now. Stupid ache-in-the-stomach thing makes it hard to _think.)_ (Also, even though half-asleep-John was yelling mean names at him, Sherlock would like John to know he had a flawless erection at the time.)

* John would like to be all huggy and kissy now because the great Sherlock Holmes just admitted—twice—that he's a huge great marshmallow and that he loves John and that makes John feel all kinds of ache-in-the-stomach now too because without Sherlock John's pretty sure he'd have long since…well never mind. All John wants Sherlock to know is that Sherlock is his best beloved, and that John loves every beautiful inch of him always—at three a.m., at midnight, today, tomorrow and so very much forever. To prove it he's even binned the last box of Jaffa cakes. (And also John is grateful Sherlock noticed that erection because even John thought it was rather a beauty and it was a shame it went to waste.)

* Sherlock has something in his eye. His eyes. And his nose. And…and John is a prince among men and if Sherlock could carve his name over his heart _again_ he would but he knows John would throttle him but that's not the point. The point is…the point is, was, and ever shall be this, just this: Sherlock loves John, with all the heart he has, with all the soul in him, with every breath. Forever and always John. P.S. Sherlock knows John _ate_ that last box of Jaffa cakes. And also, would John like Sherlock's bum in the air and a bit in the teeth, or did he still want the boots-and-thong? Oh. Never mind. Sherlock just worked out how to make up-against-the-sitting-room-window work perfectly. Back shortly.

_So Fanbot wanted to know if the boys squabble about which foods it's okay to dunk into tea, and Contradictacat wondered what each thought of Jaffa cakes. After that the boys grabbed the reins and turned this into an argument-conversation-love letter. It seems I had nothing at all to do with almost any of it. P.S. I will continue "How to Kill John Watson, Easy Peasy," but damn it I'm moving and my brain is rattled so you may be waiting a week for chapter two. P.P.S. I always mean to reply to your comments but between writing boy porn (yeah boy porn!) and 'real life' writing and, you know, breathing, I can't always find the time. I'm so sorry about that; I am always grateful for them. Always._


	29. Chapter 29

* John Watson knows the man to whom he's married. He knows the love of his life loves complex problems over which to puzzle; that he's fascinated by decomposition and decay; and that he considers a day of titrating blood samples taken from a crime scene a day well-spent. Which is why the good doctor took his macabre mate north for their first anniversary, where they proceeded to celebrate their hearts-and-flowers nuptials with wine, seafood, then six solid hours in the Alnwick Poison Gardens. There Sherlock talked deadly toxins with enthusiastic tour guides, requested and was (eventually) given noxious samples of belladonna, opium, and cannabis, and later told John it was the best gift he'd ever received _ever._

* Sherlock Holmes knows the man to whom he's married. As such he knows John's pleased when Sherlock recalls anniversaries, birthdays, or major holidays. But Sherlock knows that what means more to his mate are random gestures, rare moments, and small things remembered. So apropos of nothing Sherlock will sometimes snatch up and kiss the back of his husband's hand. He'll stop in a bright patch of winter sun and give John a new pair of soft, warm gloves he'd last month admired in a shop window. And sometimes, when they're smack dab in the middle of a completely pointless fight, he'll tell John he loves him, he really loves him. Even though he's clearly wrong, wrong, so very, very _wrong._

* How to send John Watson round the bend in one easy step: Run with scissors. Or a scalpel. Or with a knife, a lit candle, a razor blade, a pipette of nitric acid, or a flask of ethanolamine. Sherlock's done all of these things and each time he arrives on the scene—breathless with news of something _that really could have waited—_John actually has to sit down, one hand over his heart, the other held out for the offending item all the while going, "Give it to me, give it to me, give it here _now."_ So often does this happen and so traumatic is it to the doctor each time it does that all John asked for on their second anniversary was that Sherlock never, ever, not one time _ever_ run in the flat again. Not even if the damn thing was on fire. No, seriously, not even then.

* Sherlock puts things in his mouth. Yes, yes, _that_ thing in particular, early and often, but things unattached to John get in there, too. Because sometimes taste will tell. That puddle of ooze has no iron tang? Not blood. That small brown bottle of oily liquid? A harmless petroleum product, not the urushiol derivative Sherlock needed for his plant toxicology experiment. So often does the detective detect with his tongue, as a matter of fact, that John carries fifty grams of activated charcoal on his person at all times, just in case. "I taste John, I don't _swallow,"_ Sherlock says without even a hint of sexual innuendo. John just nods, fingers the small bottle in his pocket, without even a hint of sexual innuendo, and says, "I know Sherlock. I know."

* John thought the children were adorable; we'll get to what Sherlock thought in a minute. What _Lestrade_ thought was that the little boys were so unnervingly like two grown men with whom he was familiar that the DI simply picked up the phone and said, "Will you come?" Those two men did, and for the next hour all deferred to the doctor as he tried to get the sweet, blond, younger boy—"I'm _this_ many!" (four)—to tell them where mummy and daddy were, but the child just turned to the dark, opinionated, older boy—"He's _this_ many!" (five)—who apparently was going to just sit there with his raggedy teddy bear and be talkative, dramatic, and yet very uninformative for a solid sixty minutes, thank you very much.

* It was Sherlock who eventually learned that the boys had not run away from home as most had feared—they'd run away from the circus. Literally. Mum and dad had taken them to the their very first circus that morning and upon seeing their very first clown and then hearing the very first screams coming from the midway, the boys had quickly decided "No, absolutely not," and had simply begun walking, eventually merging onto the M25 on foot. Fortunately a police cruiser passed not five minutes later. Ultimately children and parents were safely reunited, but not before Sherlock deduced that the teddy bear's name was, quite appropriately, Angst.

* John recently cut Sherlock's hair and frankly he'd rather eat glass, chase it with a shot of raw sewage, then bite his own tongue than do that again. Because to infiltrate a group called the _Bald-Headed League_ Sherlock hadn't actually required his tresses trimmed, he needed his head shaved damn well bare. John Watson is a good spouse, believes in his husband's work, and does his best to support him. Booyah, rah-rah, way to go John. However as he ran the clippers over that beautiful mop the good doctor actually got woozy and had to sit down. It was only Sherlock's casual remark that he'd meant to go to the barber on Chiltern anyway that put the iron back in John's spine. Because frankly John Watson would rather butter his toast with dead worms and hydrazine than let someone else touch Sherlock's hair.

* Sherlock was possibly drunk on moonbeams and good thoughts, endorphins and John's cock that night, because he honestly doesn't usually use words like _adorable_ and _precious._ However, combine a perfect spring night and the roof of 221B, add slow sex and his and John's third anniversary, and apparently the man will spontaneously wax rhapsodic about his husband's more winsome charms. These apparently include that thing where he'll follow Sherlock's movements with his eyes but not his head; the thing where he'll look at you through his lashes when he's angry (which just makes him look so ridiculously sexy Sherlock needs to _have at him),_ but the absolute most adorable, precious, delicious part of John is the thing everyone notices about him two minutes after they've met the man: That tongue, that wonderful, talented, busy, ever-questing, probing, licking, thrusting, gorgeous tongue.

* John is the kind of man to use words like giggle, sweet, and lovely, so it's really more of a problem getting him to _shut up_ about Sherlock's charms than it is to entice him to offer a few. However, if you pressure him to limit himself, he will tell you that there is this one thing Sherlock does that is so ridiculously adorable it _totally half kills John dead_ every single time. So, when Sherlock is feverish and dozing? Well, he'll sometimes push the fingers of one hand into his own hair and clutch a fistful like a child. Gently run your thumb over his lips when he does that—John discovered this purely by chance—and he'll open his mouth and grunt until you slide that thumb in there. Then he'll suck and contentedly sleep and, if you're his _husband_ inserting that thumb between those lips, well everything stops being adorable pretty fast and turns kind of blurry and warm and rather erect. But that's a different story entirely.

* The first time Sherlock wore John's boxer-briefs but that didn't work. Mostly because John's pants are snug on _John,_ stretch them over Sherlock's capacious back end and you're asking for baggy briefs later, or a consulting detective tackled to the ground now. Problematic either way. The next time Sherlock tried wearing John's socks but the problem was the same: Too much Sherlock, not enough material. Eventually they figured it out. Now when they're apart for more than a day, Sherlock simply wears one of John's ties and by doing so Sherlock feels connected to John, and John? He honestly feels that in some small way he's protecting Sherlock.

* It's been over five years since John moved into 221B but he's only recently thought to ask Mrs. Hudson why, right from the start, she'd presumed he was, or was going to be, Sherlock's lover—it's not like the man had a history of bringing any of _those_ home. The good lady dissembled awhile with tea preparations before answering, keen on providing the right reply. Eventually she said, "Sherlock was so…proud of you. He knew what a rare one you are, John, and already the wheels were turning in that head of his. I could have told you then that he'd do anything for you. He'd have grumbled yes, but even then he'd have given if you'd asked. And you? You couldn't see the look on your face when you looked at him. I could. I did. And it's still there, my dear. It's still there."

* Sherlock trusts Mrs. Hudson implicitly. They may move in different circles those two, and diverge in their tastes and pursuits, but they are of similar mind, and each is bright and blade-sharp in their own area of expertise. So when Sherlock caught Mrs. Hudson's eye not once but twice those first minutes after bringing John home it was for neither a casual glance. Sherlock's look was a question: "Am I right? Have I got this right?" Elizabeth Ariadne Westminster Hudson's return gaze had been barely a half second long but her reply had hardly needed even that. "Yes you have," those dark eyes flashed. "John. John Watson. _Him."_

_For no particular reason I decided this Minutiae (min-oo-sha) would cover their post-marriage years (and apparently name lots of chemicals). Thank you mogwai_do for asking for something about John cutting Sherlock's hair, candy4yourEYEZ for telling me running with scissors makes John "mental," and Miss Crookshanks for the prompt about clothes-swapping. Meanwhile Livia Carica so named that teddy bear Angst. P.S. The Alnwick Poison Gardens really do exist._


	30. Chapter 30

* Sherlock's feet are long and his shoes narrow. The detective favors black and he has a very repressed-Victorian need to tug his shoestrings tight, so tight as a matter of fact that at the end of a busy day he'll slide his shoes off and sometimes there'll be lace marks indenting the pale flesh. John loves the look of those narrow feet bound, but will assuage his guilty conscience by rubbing his sweetheart's bared feet until blood-flow returns and prehensile toes wiggle around again like happy little antenna.

* John's feet are large for his height and his shoes are serviceable and generally in neutral tones of brown or black, like so much of his wardrobe. The good doctor did have a years-long fling with motorcycle boots but those things are heavy and hold you back when you're running the criminal element to ground. An aside that does not leave this room: John tried on a pair of Sherlock's stilettos once and though his lover was a fan John spent the rest of the evening muttering "No. Just…no. Absolutely dear god and fucking hell no."

* Since we're discussing body parts, Sherlock's head is a bit larger than normal for a man his size, a fact that surprised him_ not one teeny bit._ Because yes, even the great genius believes the simple statement: big head = big brain = brilliant. Funny thing is, research supports this assertion, contradicts this assertion, then throws up its hands and says who knows please stop asking. The funny thing is, no one realizes that Sherlock's head is _exactly normal size,_ not until he goes and shaves it for a case and it becomes apparent that the clever little detective just has big, puffy hair.

* He's been Winnie-the-Pooh, a kitten, Indiana Jones, Spock, a Jedi knight, and Marty McFly and each time thought he was the absolute coolest thing on the street. When John unearthed a few photos of himself in those childhood Halloween costumes, however, he cringed and then laughed himself completely stupid. The funny thing is that in the last three years and for various cases John's tricked himself out as a woman, a homeless drunk, a be-tweeded professor, a flamingly gay photographer, and, actually, Spock. Each of those times he's looked in the mirror, made a few tweaks, and liked what he saw. The _other_ funny thing is, in about thirty years he's going to cringe and then laugh himself completely stupid when he looks at a few photo albums of their 221B years. Sherlock is not going to be amused.

* Sherlock loved dressing for Halloween as a child and would some years have _two_ costumes, one for school, the other donned later for the purposes of procuring sweets. Identities he adopted included a black widow spider ("eight legs, they have _eight"),_ a hobbit, Winnie-the-Pooh ("no he's more a light brown, not yellow"), a doctor, a Crested Royal penguin ("no it's more a yellow, not so brown"), a symphony conductor, Dmitri Mendeleev ("more hair!"), and the periodic table of elements (that one he wore twice). There was a fallow period of nearly eighteen years when Sherlock had no cause for costumes and then came that first case requiring a disguise (silver heels, black eyeliner, big hoop earrings, silver leather pants), and since then he's been a belly dancer, a tattoo artist (fake tattoos, real piercings), a dentist, an airline captain, a soldier, a police constable, a priest, and that's just in the last two years. When John accused Sherlock of favoring cases that required dress-up Sherlock was not amused.

* If John survives until retirement he'll be pleasantly surprised. If Sherlock survives until next week, John'll be shocked. John's never known anyone as smart _and_ stupid as Sherlock and yes we say it endlessly but that's because it's never not true. The man is so over-the-top that every other week brings a new jaw-dropper. This week's _are you kidding me? No seriously you must be kidding_ was Sherlock accidentally setting his genital hair on fire and if you can imagine any scenario whatsoever where those words, in that order, make the slightest sense then clearly your name is Sherlock Holmes and so why the hell are you _reading _this when you said you'd pick up some decongestant for John who's having this stupid allergic reaction because of that _mould_ you also managed to set on fire an hour ago.

* Sherlock touches himself. Usually with his right hand, usually when he's thinking, and usually when he's fully dressed. The places he touches are his right leg, his left arm, his neck and his chest when any one—or all—are covered in silk, velvet, high-thread-count cotton or any other material that is pleasant to stroke or roll between the fingers. So soothing is this twiddling habit when Sherlock's mind is furiously engaged that the pensive genius has been known to reach out and pet John's jumpers—while John is in them—if he himself is wearing nothing his fingers find fascinating.

* John likes walking. From Baker street to anywhere, if it's within a five mile radius and there's time, the good doctor will often get there by shank's mare. Over the years Sherlock's developed the habit of following, even likes it, despite what his pallor may imply. On pretty days—and London has a fair few—John will sometimes guide them by circuitous routes to a new Chinese place miles away on Gloucester. They'll walk across one of half a dozen bridges and stroll Southbank. Sometimes they'll enjoy street performances along the Thames and, if he's in a particularly placid mood, Sherlock will even keep his pretty, opinionated mouth shut about what they see. On lazy days without a case the walk may be all they do. Surprisingly it can sometimes be enough. More than enough. For both of them.

* Clotted cream is the one unsweet food you can reliably get Sherlock to eat without having to first smear it on John's body. However, if you _do_ smear it on John's body Sherlock will eat until he's sick. This fact became evident last year when the power went out on Baker Street and the boys helped Mrs. Hudson consume perishables by carting them back to their flat and having at by having at each other. While John kept telling his lover to slow the hell down, Sherlock just kept spreading cream and then spreading John. To this day Sherlock maintains that the resulting stomach ache was so completely worth it. If pressed John will completely agree.

* John doesn't talk about it generally but if pressed he will acknowledge that yes, fine, _yes,_ he does like Sherlock in drag, okay, and he doesn't know what that means except _he likes Sherlock in drag._ So it wasn't particularly surprising when the good doctor found himself in possession of a beautiful boner soon after he saw his tall sweetie wrapped lavish in a blue-silk sari, wrists and neck swathed in bright yellow gold, beautiful belly bare. The fact that Sherlock also had something of a visceral reaction to John in leather chaps—an erection is extremely difficult to hide when you wrap a sari _that_ tightly—is not something we're discussing at this time.

* Sherlock noticed beauty before he met John, of course he did. Pretty flowers, pretty men, pretty days. Yet though Sherlock _saw _he intentionally did not _observe. _Because beauty has no reason, no purpose; it's subjective, it comes and goes, it hinders more than it helps. So what was the point? Then came John—and Sherlock's answer. And that's this: Beauty warms cold days. It calms a racing heart, brings silence amidst cacophony. It soothes you some days, it wakes your passions others, it makes you feel you can fly and brings you to your knees. Sherlock doesn't yet understand how it can do any of these things, but when he looks at John, his beautiful, perfect John, it really doesn't matter.

* Even an idiot can see that Sherlock's beautiful. And you better believe John's watched a legion of brass-plated idiots _see_ and _want _that beauty. That's not the part that mystifies John. No, what confounds the good doctor is how blind, how _brass-plated blind,_ people are to Sherlock's real beauty: To the flame of his brilliance, to the words he conjures that give shape to it, to the spark in his eyes when he's electrified by challenges, questions, deductions. Sherlock's inky hair will grey. His lean limbs will soften. He will become wrinkled, slow, perhaps stooped. But Sherlock's real beauty is a fire whose flame will never falter. Not for John. Not ever.

_Thank to mysterypoet66 who, while also being a fan of Ben's SparkleShoes, like me, wanted to know more about Sherlock and John's shoes. Thank you also to Random Nexus who suggested that Sherlock is tactile and likes textures. Meanwhile Meredydd suggested chaps for one of the chaps, while TiaBolt suggested saris…thank you both._

_Now, let us take a brief respite to enjoy the song stylings of Starshine24mc, as relates to _Minutiae. _Thank you, please remember to tip on your way out._

**Minutiae (Or 156 Things I Know About You) **

(with apologies to Julie Andrews and well, the whole Sound of Music cast, I guess - Starshine24mc)

John Watson's outie and Sherlock Holmes lisping

Dog tags and medals, experiments crisping

Lestrade's 'smoking hot' and our Mycroft's no fool

These are Minutiae—this story's so cool!

John's ambidextrous and Sherlock is that tall

John's high-pitched giggling at his Sherlock's pratfall

Fairy cakes, dancing, locks, absinthe and wanks,

For all this Minutiae I've got to give thanks!

John's hot for jewelry and Sherlock gets earrings

John swears a blue streak for anyone hearing

Butterfly touches and tight jeans on bums

Minutiae's a party and everyone comes!

John loves Sherlock

Sherlock's brilliant

John is strong and brave

So this is Minutiae from Atlin Merrick

The story I always crave!

_Filk song written by the delightful, giggle-making Starshine24mc. Please go visit her at Starshine24mc dot LiveJournal dot com._


	31. Chapter 31

* John knows he shouldn't be proud they broke the bed. That at forty he's entirely too mature for the little peacock strut he did after the frame cracked and one corner loudly gave way. But being as the thing wasn't very old, and the disintegration occurred while John held on to the bedhead as Sherlock rogered him good, he thinks he can be excused for the nude, fully erect, giggle-filled cha-cha he did after Sherlock came (of course neither of them entertained removing themselves from the wreckage until the good detective ejaculated).

* Sherlock said it at the time, he said it in front of the store's assembled security detail, and he said it later when Mrs. Hudson asked what the _hell_ he was thinking: Testing the beds at Selfridges made perfect sense. You do two things in bed: Sleep and have sex. How a bed feels when you're asleep…well who cares? But whether it squeaks, pokes, or moves when you straddle your sweetheart, his handsome cock well up your lavish arse, and ride hell for leather, well _that_ matters. So of course before they bought one Sherlock tested the beds. Who wouldn't?

* Look, John's all for experimentation. Proof of concept. But seriously, some facts are…well…look. _Seriously. _He could have dealt with a _tiny_ bit of discreet thrusting, okay? A wee bit of pretend humpy-bumpy while sales staff weren't looking. But of course _that _would have been subtle. Sane. _Legal._ Instead, the moment John stretched out on the mattress to give it a run, Sherlock clambered on top of him and _rocked._ And when John shoved the man off and bounded from the bed as if it were on fire, Sherlock just went ahead and _simulated sex alone,_ rutting and thrashing and humping a pillow for Christ's sake. John doesn't wonder that security was there before Sherlock even reached his simulated (please, _please_ tell John it was simulated) orgasm.

* Frankly, living with John can be a trial. No one thinks so, do they? No, everyone pats John's hand and tut-tuts when maggots get in the butter, or scorpions breed in the luggage, or Sherlock catches fire, right? But who pats _Sherlock's_ hand when John complains the server brought him _low fat_ cheesecake (he didn't), or the barista spit in his flat white (she didn't), or the stupid time change is stupidly damn stupid (it is)? Who? No one, that's who. It's no wonder that after they stopped to listen to entertaining invective at Speaker's Corner this morning the great detective made childish _"See?"_ faces when an orator unexpectedly veered onto topics of marital forbearance.

* John loved Holland Park's Kyoto garden at first. He's been to Japan, so the trimmed shrubbery, the splashing water, and the rock garden were a bittersweet reminder of a long-ago time. Then he saw the god damn gargantuan fish. _Koi,_ as Sherlock insisted in his pedantic way, "Or carp if you prefer." John did not prefer. The moment he spotted those colossal monsters he backed away and right into Sherlock and said, "_Killer_ fucking koi," and _kept backing up._ Which is how Sherlock ended up tripping and falling shin deep in the _other _pond, the one at his back. John was a dozen feet past the garden's gates before he even noticed.

* Despite the unceremonious dunking, Sherlock enjoyed their foray that day, though he favored the English garden over the Japanese. Just as John learned he has a surprisingly illogical fear of giant fish ("No, just the koi, and…and…I was startled. I'm not actually afraid…no, yes I am."), Sherlock discovered he finds pleasant a well-mannered expanse of white roses, lavender, and vine-covered bowers. That John snogged him half-hard under one of those bowers as apology for the discomfort of Sherlock's drenched Louis Vuittons possibly has a lot to do with the detective's fond feelings for fussy shrubbery.

* Look, John appreciates the sentiment, but he tries to be a 'water off a duck's back' kind of guy about some things, and bossy Americans is one of them. First off, they're an unpredictable people and John just doesn't need the bullshit. Second, they're surprisingly easy to irritate and you never know what'll turn them from pleasant to apoplectic, so the good doctor doesn't see the point in poking crazy, then being alarmed when crazy goes all banshee. Okay, Sherlock? Sherlock? _Sherlock!_

* No one tells Dr. John Watson to shut up (except Sherlock). _No one_ tells Captain John Watson to get out of the way (apart from Sherlock). And absolutely no one _touches _John H. Watson (only Sherlock; ever). So when the authoritarian American did all of this as they wandered _too slowly for her liking_ through that museum, you better believe Sherlock got his deductive stroppy right the hell on. The peeved genius proceeded to follow the woman for forty minutes over four floors, murmuring a cutting cascade of pithy deductions. By the time he got to 'over-sexed, with a clitoris the size of a banana' the woman clapped a hand over her mouth and ran out the door.

* John noticed the shirts right off. Everyone does. The shirts that don't fit, on a body that benefits greatly from shirts that don't fit. John was self-identifying as mostly heterosexual when he and Sherlock first met, so he decided the reason he kept staring at those shirts over those early months was because he wanted to witness it when a button gave way. While he's still waiting for that eventuality, he figured the least he could do was go ahead and stop identifying as mostly heterosexual. So he did.

* Sherlock loves John's body, from soft hair to kinda big feet, but the good detective does have a favorite part and he's not shy about showing his appreciation of the good doctor's middle. And by not shy we mean pointedly staring when John's stretched out on the sofa and his t-shirt rides up; relishing a good early-morning rub-and-rut against that warm, pliable flesh; or slicking a hot tongue around John's belly button, sort-of-not-really trying to push the doctor's wee little outtie back innie and getting giggles and mock moans for his efforts.

* John wasn't surprised that Sherlock, an excellent mimic, could do an impression of a little girl's voice; it's not that hard, even for a six foot, broad-chested baritone. What surprised John that long evening when the power was out and they were entertaining themselves in quiet dark, was that when Sherlock pretended to be Vexation London Holmes-Watson—one of their invented daughters—he had Vex tell John a long, meandering adventure story about why John was the best father in the whole world.

* Sherlock knows John wanted children, and he knows he'll forever feel…is it guilt? Sherlock's not sure because he's never really felt guilty about much of anything—but he thinks that's what this is and so he feels a little guilty that John will not be a father. So Sherlock provides John with children in the only real way he knows how: He gives make-believe girls imaginary voices and intrepid escapades and solemn thoughts about fathers and home and security and love, and in so doing he breaks John's heart a little every time and also fills it fit to bursting.

_In this Minutiae (min-oo-sha), the beds in Selfridges and the gardens in Holland Park were inspired by a day in London with bubbly Tysolna. The bit about the American sort of happened when Lucybun and I were at the Sherlock Holmes museum. And Livia Carica needed something about John's clothes riding up, Jesterisdead wanted to know what John thought about the brave buttons on Sherlock's shirts, and an off-the-cuff remark from OrangeZest100 inspired the final two. Thank you all! __P.S. I am American, so, er, I get to say what I said they said about us. *Cough*_


	32. Chapter 32

* A recent case called for Sherlock to model men's lingerie for a cadre of matronly millionaires. While that investigation came with ample financial remuneration at its conclusion, the real bonus came when Sherlock learned how _very_ much John likes the smooth expanse of the good detective's bare-shaved legs.

* When John dated women he didn't care much for the high-heel, lavish lipstick, scanty panty look. Oh he didn't knock it, but such stereotypical female embellishments weren't a specific turn-on. Then _dear gods and garters_ there was Sherlock. If John's purchased a single gift for his lover in the last year that wasn't fancy knickers, spike heels, sheer hose, or silver jewelry for fingers, neck, ears, toes, belly, or cock he can't readily recall it.

* While we're discussing sexual turn-ons (we were, weren't we?), let's talk about the pilfering and the finger sucking, all right? Because frankly Sherlock's got a new peccadillo and it's stealing whipped cream. From cafés. As soon as the barista's back is turned. He then follows John to a quiet corner in the eatery and proceeds to cover his middle finger in the stuff, then suck it off slowly, with deeply murmured sound effects. And, in case you're wondering, John'd like you to know that getting boners in cafés is not as fun as you'd think. Getting _off_ in café loos has its problematical points, but it's entirely more rewarding than shoving the heel of your hand against a hard-on for a half hour.

* Speaking of cafés and sex (we were, weren't we?), when John moved into 221B he paid no mind to the fact he'd be living above a busy restaurant. Why should he? Yes. Well. That was before he and Sherlock become lovers. Before he learned his sweetheart is so loud during sex you can hear him from the street. The _other side_ of the street. That was before John knew he was going to get it up the arse so good one day their bed would noisily give way during Speedy's breakfast rush. That was before he and Sherlock broke into the café one night, so drunk on wassail that neither recalls _how_ they got in, _which_ tiny tables they had sex on, or what they did that caused Mr. Chatterjee to send them a bill for eighty pounds worth of lettuce.

* Sherlock's slow on some uptakes, so when he dashed out the door of 221B recently, detouring briefly to grab an espresso from Speedy's, he had no clue why the half dozen patrons broke into spontaneous applause. Only once John arrived—and blushed clear to his collarbones—did the consulting detective understand that the ovation had to do with the good doctor's rather pornographic shouting as Sherlock spectacularly sucked him off not twenty minutes previous. It's safe to say John blushed right on down to his nipples when Sherlock took a bow.

* All right, we give up. Since we're talking about sex, we might as well get it all out. So here's a little known fact: The first time John saw Sherlock masturbate he actually _heard_ him do the deed. For so keyed up was Sherlock the early weeks of his relationship with John, so damned _erect_ half the time, that once (just once) the good detective sought relief by wanking frantically in one of the Met's single-toilet loos. He never knew that John followed him, leaning against the loo door, arms folded to ward off the unwary, and…um, listened. Dear god did he listen.

* Another little known fact: The night after the night John and Sherlock became lovers, Sherlock spent three hours and thirty-four minutes canoodling with, bussing, and otherwise Frenching a bare-naked skull. This unusual use of their small fireplace furnishing made perfect sense both to Sherlock and Rory the skull, who, if asked, would tell you that that night was not the first (or last) time she's had Sherlock's tongue down her non-existent throat. It _was_ the first time she detected any improvement in Problem Child's technique, however, and she soon thereafter had a good, long talk with his sweetie, John Watson. Her praise was emphatic and extremely frank.

* A surprising number of people know about John's storied past. The good doctor's not sure when it became general knowledge that he was easy during his army days, but soon after becoming a regular at the Met the propositions began. The thing is, old habits die hard and during those first two months at 221B John spread 'em as often as he was able, which wasn't very, what with Sherlock running him all over London. Then came the small matter of falling in love. Now those three Met officers (a constable, a detective constable, and an assistant commissioner) have themselves something of a reputation for having enjoyed the charms of John 'Three Continents' Watson.

* Right from the start Sherlock loved John's reputation. So used to being better than almost everyone at almost everything, the good detective found his lover's vastly more varied sexual history a positive relief, and in the early days of their relationship spent a good deal of time peppering John with pointed questions about his technique and tastes, then taking detailed, cross-indexed notes. That the good doctor was often in the middle of a little anal something or a bit of fancy fingering when Sherlock did this didn't help the good doctor's technique _at all._

* They were like waking dreams—John'd almost say nightmares because they were _that_ intense and ill-timed. Fortunately they only happened the first few weeks after he and Sherlock got together. He'd be pleasantly queuing at Tesco, and then he'd see, bright as day and twice as glorious, Sherlock writhing beneath him on acres of black silk (they don't have silk sheets), or Sherlock riding hard over him, wearing nothing but John's bite marks and a grin. So acute were these visions that John would actually slap a hand over his mouth, abandon whatever he was buying, and go press himself against a frozen foods cooler for a few seconds to quell a growing erection.

* Sherlock rocks John to sleep some nights. Always those times are when Sherlock's restless, frustrated, melancholy. On nights like that he'll crawl into bed and pull his love close, making low shushing sounds into the silence. He'll stroke John's hair and softly murmur, "It's all right," and then Sherlock will rock. Slow, then slower still, until eventually it's barely movement, all the while crooning wordless sounds of comfort until he feels his lover's body go soft, until he feels his own heartbeat become as steady as John's breathing.

* You needn't be a deductive genius to understand that Sherlock's mothering himself those very rare nights he rocks his lover in his arms. No, you needn't have a brilliant brain to grasp something so obvious, but perhaps you do need a healer's heart to understand how much pain can hide behind a stoic façade, and how simply accepting love is sometimes the single most loving thing you can do. Or maybe you just need to be John Watson. Yes, that's probably it.

_This largely sex-centric Minutiae (min-oo-sha) brought to you by my untamed libido, apparently. Thank you Speedy's for existing, Dark Knightress for requested something about John catching Sherlock masturbating, Caroline Two for the idea of Sherlock practicing kisses on the skull, and lmusic who wanted to know what Sherlock thinks of John's three continents reputation. Thank you all for sharing your untamed libidos, too. What did you think of this chapter, and what do you want to know about the boys?_


	33. Chapter 33

* They'd been together nearly five years before John discovered how much he likes it. He's glad Sherlock enjoys it too, but John's pretty sure he'd do it even if his husband simply tolerated it. And _it_ is brushing Sherlock's hair. The first time John did it was after the wind tunnel case and Sherlock's threat to shave his head rather than cope with the case-caused snarls. John foiled that tragedy by brushing out curly locks while the good detective wrote up his notes. So soothing was it to minister to that dark mane that John simply took up the habit and has yet to relinquish it.

* Sherlock savors the feel of John's fingers running through his tangled hair, though he's less fond of the _styling._ For over the years the good doctor's teased Sherlock's mop to such a froth that the man could audition for _Hairspray_ with coiffured confidence. He's slicked Sherlock's 'do back with creams, clipped it, curled it, and once braided it with such care it took a week for the kinks to come out. Of all the coifs Sherlock's indulgently endured, however, the only one that made him laugh was the one where John put his hair up in elastics to make forty-two spritely little pigtails. Sherlock looked like a damned hedgehog, he so totally did.

* Of course Mrs. Hudson's not their housekeeper, John is. While the good doctor's not obsessively tidy his limits for chaos _are _lower than Sherlock's_, s_o John does most of the shopping and cleaning—_and _the grousing about it. Fortunately Sherlock recently stumbled on a solution for that. After John's cooked or dusted or mopped, when he's grunted himself into his armchair for a stroppy rest, Sherlock—as often as not scribbling case notes at their desk—will open that fine mouth, pitch his voice dark, and he'll moan. He'll pant. He'll plead. _While continuing to write his notes. _So lavishly does John's body respond to this "payback" that the good doctor readily gets off right there, nine times out of ten.

* Sherlock will deny until the day he's unequivocally _dead_ that he wasn't spying on John and that he didn't mean to catch him masturbating and that he definitely didn't mean to watch and listen and maybe record the act on his mobile. Those were accidents. Be that as it may, the first time Sherlock caught John in the act of self-pleasuring they had been lovers for two weeks, five days, and three hours and had had, on average, sex 1.95 times a day. Ninety minutes after John finished what _Sherlock didn't mean to watch him do,_ that average went up to 2.05. Or 2.11 if you count what happened just after midnight.

* John's supposed to blow, he _knows _he's supposed to blow, but it's never been in his nature to blow, all right? John Watson's a sniffer, he's always _been_ a sniffer, and he'll be one until the day he dies. And at this rate that'll be soon because the congestion is damn well going to kill him. Fortunately John lives with a super genius who quickly figured out the best way to get the good doctor to do what he is supposed to do: kiss him. While the lack of oxygen makes John pleasantly giddy, it also inspires him to finally grab a tissue and give a good, hard, honking _blow._

* Sherlock's written a few of the entries in John's blog. The first time was when John's hands were so badly stung by bees he couldn't feed himself or have a wank, much less use a keyboard. The second time was when the good doctor was quarantined for two days because everyone thought he'd been exposed to anthrax. The most recent occurrence was when Sherlock handcuffed John as part of an explanation of a case and only afterward realized he had no key for the cuffs. Anyway, the point is is that Sherlock's written at least three blog entries for John, each four thousand words to John's more usual five hundred, and every last one rife with phrases like axiomatic, incontrovertible, self-explanatory, and, after he's read the comments, ridiculous, half-baked, thick-headed, I despair.

* Since he's been a doctor John's been, well, playing doctor. "Ooo, examine me, baby," or come-hither words of that nature have been murmured in his physician's ear by lovers from East Croydon to Kyoto. And John? Generally he's been willing to oblige. So when late one night Sherlock rumbled something about a full-body checkup, John chuckled against his mouth and said oh sure he'd give his sweetheart a little probing ha ha ha. Seconds later he learned Sherlock was actually requesting a proper exam. Turns out the daft detective had been medicating a chronic cough into somnolence but had finally grown tired of his dry-throated symptoms. So, yeah, John gave Sherlock a full check-up and that was pretty much the end of that.

* Well, no it wasn't. Because, frankly, when your sweetie says he'll give you an internal exam with his cock you're going to find that the words, much like your cough, _linger._ And you're going to—there's no other word for it—_daydream_ about your lover giving you a nice hard probing and you're going to actually murmur _oh yes_ and also _orifices _out loud at the Met before your sweetheart twigs and then, despite a personal promise to himself that he wouldn't do it again—not after what happened last time—well you're going to find your lover locking the two of you in a supply cupboard for a good forty minutes and even though the light's burned out and no one can see one little bit of _anything _you're going to discover that a doctor knows precisely where all of your, um, _orifices_ are.

* John admits he said it one too many times, but frankly it _did_ and it _does._ It started because Sherlock was studying case notes in bed and ignoring John, a perfectly nice day, and John's erection, only not in that order. Fine, _fine._ John just went ahead and made his own entertainment after spying the pocket magnifier on the nightstand. Within minutes the good doctor had gazed close-up at sixteen of his lover's moles, ten freckles, and a scar on his left knee. The man in question didn't give a whit until John, peering at Sherlock's flaccid penis, was on his fifth repeat of "Honest to god it looks like an alien, a wrinkled, hairy little alien." After that a certain consulting someone snapped his file closed and stomped off to study dimorphic gut fungus photos in the loo like a normal person.

* Sherlock has done many, _many_ stupid things for a case, including burn off his genital hair (that story told soon); deduce an octopus by allowing it to have a sort of tentacle sex with his mouth (the sucky little love bites on his neck lasted a week); find himself naked, erect, with a pretty glass dildo up his— (no wait, that's something the boys got up to this weekend). Anyway, John's just going to go and say that definitely, hands-down, the dumbest dumb thing Sherlock's ever done in the name of a case is what he did yesterday and that is get a live leech attached to his eyeball. There are a few important things you should know about getting a live leech attached to your eyeball but perhaps the very most important of them is this: just. do. not. fucking. panic.

* Sometimes John knows it's not quite right, how they feel about one another. That their need is too great, their dependence too strong. And yet the solution is…what? Love a little less? For god's sake why? So when, after becoming briefly separated, Sherlock found him on a crowded train platform and then held him as if John'd been long lost—instead of for just under two minutes—John didn't tease. He hugged Sherlock back and he apologized for misplacing himself in the throng and in his heart John was _glad. _Glad to be needed too much, depended on so strongly, glad that if some day he really were lost that someone would care, and that that someone…he would find him.

* Sherlock's a rational man, logical, a scientist. Yet, like all of us, there's a primal side to him. The scientist knew he'd find John on that platform, the logician knew John wasn't really lost and even if he was it knew John was capable of finding his way to their hotel. Yet that primitive part of Sherlock? That dark, unreasoned part? It raised him to tiptoe, it halted his breathing to sharpen the seeing, it actually bared his teeth when the crowd _crowded _him. But when Sherlock finally spotted John a dozen feet distant it wasn't science or logic that stuttered his heart briefly still. It was love.

_Ununpentium and Lady Ginger both wanted to know about the first time Sherlock caught John masturbating. Fanbot wondered how Sherlock gets out of doing chores, and Starshine24mc had the idea for the elastics in Sherlock's hair. Karen suggested John use his cock for an internal exam (ahem), C2 wanted something about the pocket magnifier, while DaysOfStorm wondered what would happen if Sherlock got irrationally panicky should he and John be separated in a crowd. Thank you all!_


	34. Chapter 34

* Sherlock would like to point out to a certain consulting doctor that he _likes_ him in costumes—"outlandish" or otherwise—and that he was _not _laughing. Sherlock was simply caught unawares and his surprise may have _sounded_ like a hysterical fit but it was simply a certain consulting detective getting into character. If you'll recall, the producer, the manager, the mixer, the packager, the sound engineer, the road manager, and the second, and third wife all said the singer was quite a rude man and besides you said "anything for a case," my love, remember?

* John is not a consulting doctor, so you can quit that right now because it's not a compliment if that's what certain idiot husbands are thinking. And you can dial down the 'my love' thing too while you're at it, because some doctors can tell when some detectives know they totally screwed up. And speaking of screwed up, in case you didn't notice, genius, your husband's pretty damn short and when you put him in blood-red platform boots, sling a penis-shaped guitar over his shoulder, and dye his hair purple, he very much looks like he's over-damn-compensating, okay?

* Sherlock will tell anyone who listens that his wee warrior has not one single thing to over-compensate for, and as a matter of fact is so vigorously compensated that some nights it's all his husband can do to sit down comfortably. But that's not the point, the point is Sherlock really would have appreciated it if John had told him in advance that he can _sing,_ because a certain consulting detective looked as stupid as everyone el—did not look very _detectivey _with his jaw hanging open when John started singing that power song thing.

* If John has to tell his husband one more time that it's a power _ballad_ he's going to have a myocardial infarction like the bassist he's pretending to be. And if you call that husky growl _singing,_ I'm checking your hearing. But don't change the subject, which is this: when exactly was the last time we had a case that didn't involve nipple rings, sequins, corsets, or capes? Not that I don't like the excitement because I do, but something a bit more fully-dressed would be nice, because of the two people living at 221B only one bruises easily and honestly his arse could use a little time to heal.

* Sherlock would like to apologize again for how often that roadie pinched his husband's enticing, spandex-clad bum. Yesterday Sherlock had a long talk with the man, using pointed words and meaningful gestures, and if anyone tells you that a vial of hydrochloric acid was also part of the discussion they are completely _lying._ But that's not the point. The point is that if, even after nearly five years of meaningful acquaintance a certain doctor decided to _hide_ his husky, growly, throaty, deep singing voice, a certain consulting detective is wondering what other intrigues he's concealing.

* For the last time _it's not singing,_ it's coughing up a cat with style, all right? And if you can think of one place on my person I've "concealed" from your curious eye and pocket magnifier, if you can think of one experiment you haven't done on my body fluids, if you can think of more than ten minutes I've spent alone in the last year I will buy you a mass spectrometer and shove it in the bedroom so you can make sweet love to it while I kip on the couch. And frankly I would probably sleep better because your snoring is getting worse, mister. (Also, thank you for the thing with the roadie. (P.S. I was told you used sulphuric acid, but you know how tales tend to evolve with the telling.))

* While certain consulting detectives do favor oil of vitriol for its hygroscopic nature and uses in chemical synthesis, acidum salis has greater small-scale application and is less likely to have an unexpected oxidation-reduction reaction. That said, _no one_ threatened _anyone _with either chemical and a certain consulting detective is going to _detect _who put forth this untruth and he's going to _fire_ them. Also, I don't want a mass spectrometer in the bedroom if it means you're sleeping on the sofa. Also: I don't snore. Also: I may have forgotten to tell you that Mycroft helped me buy one last year and that's what that thing humming in the basement is.

* First: Oil of what and salis of who? Second: Do you really think I didn't notice that five foot behemoth whirring to itself in a dark corner or the trail of ampelite you dribbled across the dirt floor the first week you had it? Third: You can stop channeling the rock star you _aren't,_ the only one who can fire people is our client and if you keep threatening the help with corrosive chemicals the people without the job—excuse me, _gig—_are going to be us. Oh and this just in, whose bright idea was it to change my costume at the last minute? I'm _not _going on stage with cut-away velvet trousers that have my arse hanging out, I'd rather wear thong panties and a bra. P.S. What the heck is the lipstick for?

* First: Anyone who says I approved the changes the designer made to our costumes is _lying._ Also I don't know anything about the lipstick. Or the nail varnish she may have mentioned, or the sequins, the collars, or the codpieces. I am merely an employee of our client, as you so correctly pointed out, and as such I'm powerless over certain aspects of this case and if that gigantic roadie dares say otherwi—never mind. The point is that the client would like a certain doctor-cum-glam-rocker to sing tonight's closing number and a certain consulting detective may have implied he had a certain sway over that doctor and so hinted that he might convince that doctor to sing to his husband, who…who really appreciates a certain doctor's singing voice.

* It took me four read throughs to understand what you even said here, and you do know you're the world's worst liar when it comes to me, right? Because if a codpiece can have your fingerprints all over it, this purple-sequined number I'm currently strutting in _does._ And I won't mention the collar with the SH stamped on it except to say yours better have JW or there will be stern words mister, stern words. Speaking of words: all right, all right already I'll croak out a tune if you insist, but I get to pick which one. We may be pretending to be a tribute band but the band we're pretending to pay tribute to did put out a few good tunes and there's one I've always liked.

* Nineteen hours and eighteen minutes after I met you, you risked your liberty to protect my life. It was the first time you surprised me John Watson, but five years and five months later you haven't stopped. I don't understand how you can still do that, I don't understand how I can have this much data and still be uncertain of the results. How've you done this, how've you surprised me almost every one of our days together? How do you touch a heart I didn't know I had? And whoever says they saw me crying on stage is…they're…

* I can't sing, Sherlock, and I can't work the miracles you do with that magnificent mind. But whether you're standing in front of me in some crazy jeweled jumpsuit, or in Savile Row's finest, I _can_ see you. And what I see fills me with words, true words I'm more than happy to croak out in front of a crowd because yes, my love…_yours is the voice I listen for, your eyes the ones I seek, you have made me strong dear love, when before you I was weak._ I know they're not the most lyrical lyrics, so maybe these words'll have to do: I was so alone before, and I owe you so much. I love you, Sherlock.

___A/N: **MOVING!** The owners of this website keep removing my content so I won't be publishing here any longer but will still be at LiveJournal (atlinmerrick dot livejournal dot com), Tumblr (atlinmerrick dot tumblr dot com), Twitter, and eventually everything will be on AO3—please follow! Questions? I'm at atlin dot ffnet at yahoo dot co dot uk. Thank you so much! (P.S. I'm blocked from replying to reviews it seems, too!)__ Aaaaaand, onward to: Obsessionality, and a few others, mentioned enjoying the "married bickering" between John and Sherlock in a few of my other stories, while others liked the sort of story flow I did with Minutiae 28, so here you go with both. I tried to include a new fact about John or Sherlock in each paragraph, so that it was in deed a bit of minutiae. Didn't quite make it but tried… By the way, this makes over 410 minutiae (min-oo-sha)!_


	35. Chapter 35

* John Watson's straddling a motorcycle: Those words, in that order, and Sherlock couldn't talk for five seconds. Then he joined three others at Lestrade's office window and sure enough, there was John on the tarmac below, a black Yamaha R1 between his legs. Sherlock never found out who owned the motorcycle, never learned why John was on the thing, and he never heard himself make that noise Haddad said he made. But Sherlock _did_ find out where in London they could rent a black R1—and then he found a really pretty little private place north of Hampstead where they could proceed to ride each other.

* They happened only during John and Sherlock's first weeks together. _They _were surges of desire so intense the good detective sometimes became erect in public. It always happened when John was with him, right there, just running fingers over his throat while lost in thought, stretching until his t-shirt came untucked, or grinning at Greg's jokes. Each time Sherlock simply stopped what he was doing, found the nearest unoccupied room and began writing, from memory, the chemical formulas for barium bromate monohydrate, ammonium hexathiocyanoplatinate(IV), or blue vitriol on the nearest available wall with his fingertip.

* John's always been squeamish about a few things. Stepping on big, mushy bugs he just can't do. Drinking that weird bubble tea? No thank you. And watching Sherlock remove his own stitches: absolutely not. It's worse because the only reason he even had them was because John ran left when Sherlock yelled right and apparently John's forehead and Sherlock's teeth had a brief affair via Sherlock's lip. Which is the long way of explaining why right now John's sitting on the toilet, his face in a paper bag, with Sherlock—two of four stitches still in his lip—telling him to breathe slower.

* When he's damaged another of John's jumpers, again burned sheep gut to the bottom of a pan, or finally broken the last tea mug, Sherlock knows exactly how to beg forgiveness. _After _hiding the evidence, the wily detective slides on a pair of five-inch heels—bonus points if he's still wearing a suit—and seeks out John. Once the good doctor's found, Sherlock stands before him, clasps his hands behind his back, bends at the waist until his fine arse sticks way the hell out, and presents that pretty mouth for a kiss. Every single time John's already got his tongue down Sherlock's throat before his brain kicks in and the yelling starts. _"Oh _hell_ I better not smell smoke. Do I smell smoke? Sherlock!"_

* The first time John woke to find his finger in his sleeping lover's mouth the good doctor slow-exhaled for ten seconds, unsure of 1) how to breathe back in 2) what was happening 3) what in god's name he should do about it. Eventually John recalled the mechanics of inhaling. Discovered Sherlock held that finger in his mouth with a gentle bite of teeth so he could softly suck. And what John ended up doing about that with his free hand and for a long, slow time is pretty much no one's business but his own.

* Sherlock got stung the first time, he got stung the second time, he's been stung _every_ time he's been covered in bees, but Sherlock will never tire of it. There's a good reason for that and it's called positive reinforcement, otherwise known as _an orgasm._ The circumstances that first time were illegal (can you say the Baker Street boys engaging in criminal trespass while the beekeeper is detained at the Yard?), but the result was a consulting detective covered neck to nipple in bees and one army doctor on his knees _sucking_ and _swatting_ and by the time Sherlock came he'd been stung three times, John had managed to kill not one bee, and between the two of them they probably ate more honey in the next week than they did the entire year after.

* John tried growing a garden last summer back behind Mrs. Hudson's bins. He sowed lettuce and runner bean seeds in big pots, he planted eggplant and rhubarb, and he watered everything and fought the ducks at Regent's park for stolen worms, and he looked up recipes for pie and dressing and before he was three weeks in he'd given every pot to Mr. Merrick around the corner. Because, while John can literally watch paint dry—it was for a case—he apparently doesn't have the stamina to wait for a bean or stalk of rhubarb when he knows he can walk one tenth of a mile to get handfuls of both for a couple pounds, all without Sherlock trying to experiment on his worms—"I didn't cut its head off John, I merely _said_ that I've heard if you slice a worm into—" "Shut up Sherlock." Sherlock did.

* A bored man will do the stupidest things. A bored Sherlock will outstupid stupid if you give him a chance. John did, realizing his error only as the words were emerging from his mouth. No, said Sherlock, he wasn't aware of being allergic to anything. _But now that you mention it…_ The good doctor never did find out where Sherlock got the diagnostic extracts and the pin-prick kits, but for the next five days John Watson was romancing a six foot semi-inflamed pin-cushion. One who, it turned out, was allergic to kapok, turkey feathers, and guinea pig hair.

* John tried to turn Sherlock on with strawberries once. In a bid to outshine an experiment John reclined across the kitchen table, then did the whole slow-bite-dribble-juice-down-the-chin thing. His reward was Sherlock handing him a serviette with one hand, adding more tainted yeast to a barley-malt slurry with the other. Then, later that night, John decided to finish off Sherlock's chili-laden Thai take-away. Gasping, flushed, possibly having an out of body experience, the good doctor jumped a mile when Sherlock was suddenly all over him like hafnia protea on an innocent yeast.

* For awhile Sherlock went barefoot. At first John presumed it was for a case, but when his lover kept showing up to crime scenes with those pale size tens au naturel, the good doctor took Sherlock aside and said, "I've seen you forget your scarf, your mobile, and your manners, but to keep leaving home without socks or Oxfords smacks of carelessness." Sherlock's answer was swift and logical. "I'm testing whether I can gather more clues via my feet." John knew better than to scoff. And of course the answer was that Sherlock _could. _He did give up this resource, however, after the thing that happened with the nest of angry ground wasps.

* John's always loved the snow. When it's fresh it's the whitest white he knows. As it falls it blunts the sharpness of car horns, shouts, thoughts. When he was a boy he loved making a stockpile of snowballs behind a little knee-high 'fort.' He'd build his arsenal until he got to an even dozen and then he'd lay on the ground and throw each snowball into the air over his own prone little body, waging war on himself. If he gave it any thought he might wonder about that but he doesn't and so he won't.

* Sherlock no longer remembers why he's not fond of the snow. If he gives it any thought he presumes it's because its hazards outweigh its temporary beauty. But that's not why Sherlock doesn't like snow. Every snowflake is unique they say, and when he was a boy the good detective thought this little miracle the saddest thing he'd ever heard. If every flake was singular, each crystal shaped utterly unlike any other—how could they ever really touch? Snow, thought that long-ago child, must be the loneliest thing in the world.

_Kestrel337 wanted a little something about John on a motorcycle, WitchRavenFox asked if Sherlock experienced spikes of desire in public as I said John does (in Minutiae (min-oo-sha) 32), and several of the others were inspired by key words (strawberry, eggplant, snowflake, allergic) that people offered for inclusion in Long Time Coming but which I didn't (yet) use._


	36. Chapter 36

* Sherlock took it for as long as he was able and that was approximately ten seconds. After that he began pacing. After _that_ he started muttering. And after that he simply jammed his mighty arse between them and frankly Sherlock didn't notice he nearly put Greg's eye out with an elbow or that he was behaving like a possessive six year old. And ha ha no, Sherlock is _not_ jealous, but that sofa was five feet wide if it was _one_ so there was no justifiable reason that, while viewing those puerile YouTube clips of that rock band, the DI had to sit so close to Sherlock's husband that their hips touched.

* John's not ordinarily indecisive, but he was so giddy with the idea of an anniversary weekend away that he packed _four_ old concert t-shirts for _one_ over-night trip. While Sherlock was using some of their getaway to research Bournemouth's beach sand for a case, John would enjoy a little rock-and-roll with an old school chum. It wasn't until John was in their Dorset hotel digging through his overnight bag—Sherlock long since beach-bound—that he discovered his husband had repacked everything and missing was John's tight sleeveless tee, the two snug-fitting long-sleeved shirts, and the concert tee that said "Band Boys Deserve a Few Good Licks." John's wardrobe now consisted of two heavy jumpers, a white button-down, and a new shirt that said _Taken_ in big block caps.

* Sherlock's going through a phase. Never really the jealous type, three years into their marriage the big git's suddenly turned a bit possessive, a lot overprotective, and, yeah, outright jealous. That's the only way John can explain the thing in the lift on the way up to their hotel room. While two pretty girls made a fluttery fuss over the good doctor—having recognized him from a TV talk show appearance ("Oh you do it John, I can't be bothered.")—Sherlock paced the lift's small confines and twice said, "And I'm his _husband._ His husband, Sherlock Holmes. You know, the one with the _hat?"_

* John's not shy about calling in favors. Except he's kind of irked because now he owes Greg a dozen pints, detailed details, and photographic evidence. The thing is, it started innocently enough. "Assess your surroundings," intoned Sherlock, stretched out on their hotel bed, watching John attempt to use his keys as an impromptu beer bottle opener. It wasn't until Sherlock watched him bend two keys, snap a corkscrew in half, and finally cut his hand attempting to use the metal railing inside a desk drawer, that Sherlock finally huffed, "It's _obvious,_ John," grabbed the beer bottle, and had it open in two seconds.

* Sherlock maintains he's opened a dozen bottles with those little overhead fire sprinklers but John knows he's fibbing because, one, Sherlock's been in a hotel room alone drinking beer exactly never, and two, he'd have been arrested every one of those alleged dozen times because those stupid little metal contraptions do _not_ take kindly to wresting the tops from bottles. And by the way, when one goes off they _all_ damn well go off. Fortunately a call from Lestrade halted John and Sherlock's arrest, got their fine waved, and prevented their immediate eviction from the hotel. Sherlock, meantime, was proud of the small signs—_Kindly Do Not Use As a Prying Device—_that showed up beneath every sprinkler on every floor of the hotel overnight.

* John doesn't ask much. If you bring him stout when he requested porter, he'll try to deal. If you tell him you'll be there at two and show up at two twenty he'll generally hold his tongue. He does, however, like his aubergine-and-garlic stir-fry to actually contain aubergine. And he'd be pleased if Sherlock's pineapple fried rice had maybe, you know, _pineapple._ And while he's at it you do know a fortune cookie's supposed to contain an actual fortune, not puerile pronouncements like _If you don't find your job aggravating, you don't have a job,_ because one of the fucking things aggravating John _after_ the rock concert was cancelled, _after_ he had a fight with Sherlock about the repacked luggage, and _after _waiting nearly an hour for bad take-away, was an aggravating non-fortune cookie, all right?

* The _other_ thing that was aggravating happened _after_ they moved to a dry hotel room, _after_ they each drank three beers, and _after_ Sherlock solved the case John later wrote up as _The Bournemouth Identity._ And that was a detective grown so confusingly garrulous with post-case satisfaction that, in a forty-five minute monologue discussing missing fossils—"I do _not_ like fossils John"—Sherlock managed to use the word fidelity three times, truehearted twice, constancy a half dozen times, and fealty so often John lost count. It wasn't until John got two more beers and the rest of the fried rice into his husband that he learned what'd been going on for weeks. And after _that_ his aggravation was directed somewhere else entirely.

* John shouldn't have called Mycroft after his talk with Sherlock, but one, John was drunk. Two, he's always been a drunk dialer. And three, Sherlock was passed out cold (made his confession, burped, and started snoring). Sure, John'll admit it was the blind leading the blind three years ago and Mycroft had been nearly as ignorant of romantic relationships as his little brother, but that's the _point._ The idiot shouldn't have given Sherlock advice on his _wedding day_ and he shouldn't have given him _that_ advice on any day. John may or may not have ended a very long voice message to his brother-in-law with "and the fucking blender you gave us for a damn _wedding_ present _broke_ after Sherlock put bones in it what the _hell_ kind of gift is _that_ you posh bastard?"

* One half hour before Sherlock got married, he brought his brother a glass of wine. They stood together on a small hill overlooking a large one crowded with grape vines, while behind them wedding guests chatted on the winery's lawn. Without preamble Sherlock asked his brother, "Do you think he'll stay?" Instead of admitting he had no idea, Mycroft held forth, as a Holmes so often will: "John wants many dichotomous things, Sherlock. Excitement and peace, children and freedom, certainty and risk. I'd expect you can be sure _you_ are the thing he wants most in a few years." Sherlock told himself not to ask, not to ask, not—he asked. "Define 'a few.'" Mycroft had shrugged and muttered a figure. Sherlock nodded, the number three a brand in his mind from that moment.

* More than once John's wanted to fast-forward time. Get past _now_ so it can be _then._ In the early days of their relationship, when Sherlock still seemed to treat each kiss as if it might be their last, John prayed for time to speed up, so they could get to the point where his lover expected the affection, treated it as his due. That time did eventually come but there are moments—or in the case of the last few weeks, many moments—when he returns to those early days and touches John with such delicacy, it's as if the good doctor is made of candy floss and Sherlock's own fragile hopes.

* As ridiculous as it was for Sherlock to presume a precise timeline for the certainty or ceasing of John's affections, at least it meant one thing: When the actual day of their third anniversary passed, so too did Sherlock's fear. Still, when he found John's wedding ring in the butter dish—fortunately the lye and lemon juice experiment hadn't damaged it—he plucked the band up and went in search of the man on whose hand it belonged. Going to his knees beside the sofa, slipping the ring onto John's finger, he murmured softly, "With this ring I thee wed. You are mine, I am yours. Ever and always."

* John's tempted more times than he can tell to call Sherlock an idiot but about this he never will. Because, just as you do not pinch puppies, you don't hurt a man who, silent and solemn, carried with him a great burden for three years. If you're John Watson you do this: When your husband brings you your wedding ring and gently places it on your finger, repeating some of his wedding vows, you in turn recite some of yours. Then you whisper slow and soft, soft, soft against his ear, "And with my body I thee worship." And then you do.

_This Minutiae (min-oo-sha) was inspired by a weekend spent with lovely Arbitrary Aubergine and Livia Carica, when we met in the big city to see both versions of "Frankenstein." Thank you both! And thank you Shaindy for inspiring the idea of John 'remarrying' Sherlock by slipping on the wedding band—of course I reversed it, but that was exactly the prompt I needed!_


	37. Chapter 37

* Recently a journalist asked John what his most irrational fear was and of course the good doctor didn't answer. That's all he needs during the next dash down a dark alley, some witty crime lord throwing giant koi at him or lord forbid, teacup Chihuahuas. Yes, all right, for a man as rock steady as John Watson, a few things can give him the skin-crawling creeps and those wee tiny dogs? Well he'd rather not look them in the eye because have you _seen_ those eyes? The good doctor's a doctor, for crying out loud, and he knows eyes belong in _sockets _and frankly he's pretty sure all it would take for those bulging little doggy orbs to eject at velocity is one really good sneeze.

* Oddly, he's been asked twice—first by that same journalist, then by his pregnant neighbor—but Sherlock's unwilling to admit his strangest food craving, because such questions _bore_ him. Actually that's a lie. Sherlock won't admit his most unusual craving because it's not a food. No, that's a kind of a fib, too. So right, yes, the real reason Sherlock won't divulge his most unusual craving is because it's none of your business. Anyway, if you could read Sherlock's mind right now you'd learn one of the most intense cravings he's ever had was for a certain minty lube, but only vis-à-vis its taste after being applied to _that_ spot _there_ on John's body. (Look, you _asked.)_

* John loves autumn for many reasons: The weather becomes crisp, there's the hope of snow and fires…and Sherlock usually lets his hair go a bit long. To John's delight, when his lover's hair grows shaggy, Sherlock gets languorous curls across his brow and at the base of his neck, tight little ringlets that John thinks of as angel curls. That flagrant mess of a mane lends such softness to Sherlock's angles, that he can be scowling and still John thinks he looks like a damn cherub. Don't tell Sherlock.

* Under certain conditions Sherlock's hair will go almost completely straight. It's happened only once, on a case that took them briefly to Los Angeles, where the sun is unrelenting and the humidity so low the moisture which keeps a curl _curled _simply evaporates. The result, if you are Sherlock, is a very striking mass of thick, dark hair that's much longer than you'd think and apparently makes Sherlock look like some famous Finnish director well-known for four hour films and his tendency to frequently lay hands on other people's bottoms.

* John's heard the suppositions about scent, that it's a female sense, that women respond to their partner's smell more intensely and sexually than men. Well ha ha who asked you? Because, delicacy aside, here's the fact straight out: The first time John smelled Sherlock's sweat- and come-slick body _after_ they had sex, he got another erection. John Watson, it turns out, is all about scent. _Sherlock's_ scent. Sherlock's scent _there._ Pressed to quantify it he can't, but he'll reach for primal, musky, wet, hot, dark…and then at that point he'll just shut the hell up because he's breathing funny.

* Despite slumping around the house in his dressing gown at all hours, regardless of his perpetually tangled hair, and notwithstanding the cluttered chaos of most surfaces inside 221B, Sherlock's a hygienic man. So when John asked him to skip a shower or two and explained why—it was right after their third, maybe fourth time together—Sherlock made some sort of unrefined mouth noise and talked about the bacteria that thrive on living flesh. About then John pressed a detectivey hand between doctorly thighs and the detective detected an erection he hadn't seen coming. Though he groused a little, Sherlock didn't bathe for a few days after that.

* John doesn't dick around. He won't say one thing and mean another. So when he said to Sherlock, "Oh, you're home late. I'm off to a friend's birthday party in Southwark. If I'm lucky I'll be back early. Very early. It's going to be dull. Deadly dull. Frankly I don't want to go. But I'm going. I promised. God why did I promise? I'm an idiot. Anyway, that documentary you wanted to see on flesh-eating bacteria is on BBC1. Give me a kiss, love," what he meant to say was: He was going to a friend's party, it would be dull, he's an idiot, watch TV. That's all, and whatever Sherlock claims is a complete fabrication.

* Sherlock blames John for what happened because Sherlock pretty much hears what he wants to hear. So when John kibitzed about a boring party, Sherlock insists what he really meant was, "Come with me my pet, we'll stay for five minutes, I'll show you off, we'll leave and have cake." Instead John had a _great_ time, Sherlock got bored, John suggested he go home, Sherlock whined, John gave Sherlock three chocolate party favours, Sherlock retired to a corner in petulance and made a stack of those chocolate bars, then Sherlock bit into his triple-decker treat and only then did he learn that, though something looks like chocolate and though something smells like chocolate it may not in fact _be _chocolate but actually soap and _Jooooooooooohn!_

* John used to be a bit embarrassed about this, but since Sherlock just encourages it and John'll do it _anyway,_ the good doctor simply accepts that if a train ticket, a flight, a meal…if anything he's purchased comes with something _free,_ it's impossible for him to forego that complimentary item. He has drunk three double espressos in two hours because they were offered gratis on a train journey between London and Manchester. He's carted home a half dozen infant diapers because they were a give-away when he purchased baby oil at Morrison's (they're giving it a go instead of lube). And John's still got the bottle of silver glitter nail polish that came with the sheer frilly knickers he bought for Sherlock two anniversaries ago.

* Sherlock will tell you he's far too busy to have hobbies, but John knows better. With nearly every case the great detective acquires…enthusiasms. One case gave rise to a need to breed bugs ("They're dermestid _beetles, _John, or dermestidae, if you like"). There was the time he learned a fair bit of Hebrew before posing as a rabbi. And the less said about Sherlock's fixation on four-way speculums after the proctology case, the better. John's favorite of Sherlock's brief leisure pursuits, however, was the one where his pretty boy perfected his inner pretty girl after failing to pass as a famous French model. Good lord, all those pouty moues while applying lipstick, all the eye-sexing in the mirror, all those tight, arse-accentuating skirts. It's no accident the Baker Street boys ended up with a spate of cases requiring cross-dressing afterward. John made damn well sure of that.

* John's not without his difficult-to-live-with side. When he's blue, run down, or just vaguely dissatisfied with life, he'll go quiet, grumpy, and elusive, hiding out in the basement, or on the dim and musty stairs leading down to 221C. Despite knowing John's going to grouse at him, regardless of the fact that no matter what he says it's usually wrong, Sherlock goes in search of his lover and pretty much makes a pest of himself. Then, sitting patiently in basement dirt or on shadowy stairs beside, Sherlock lets John grouse at him for as long as it takes him to…well, for as long as it takes.

* Sherlock rocks. Only lately and just about anywhere. On the tube, at the Met, queuing at Tesco (they've really got to find a less busy store). Standing behind his lover, long front pressed to John's sturdy back, Sherlock simply sways back and forth. The first time he did it, his heart pounding hard against John's shoulder blade, the good doctor thought the motion was meant to be sexual. But no. It's an…intervention. It's Sherlock's own mediation between himself and a black mood, frustration with a case, or the ever-frantic whirring of his own brain. Chin to chest, his temple pressed to John's, Sherlock simply rocks himself calm. No matter where they are, John lets him. For however long it takes.

_First: Pardon the delay in "This Time No," I don't want to rush the final chapter which will hopefully publish next week. Second: I try to reply to all comments but sometimes fail due to lack of time; I'm truly sorry about that. Finally, thank you Kakareen and several other who wanted to know about irrational fears, and thanks to my husband and brother who provided me with the rock and food craving prompts._


	38. Chapter 38

* Sherlock takes baths. Not often no, but they're not rare things either. Constrained by the cocoon of a small tub around his large body, Sherlock is forced still, which sometimes makes other parts of him move faster, specifically brain and tongue. With John note-taking from a perch on the closed toilet, the damp detective talks through the latest case rapid-fire, bossy and brilliant, laser-focused and loud. It doesn't last long. As the water cools, so eventually does Sherlock's fire. Though sometimes…

* …John likes to crawl into the tub with Sherlock and wash his hair. Not often, no, but it's not a rare thing either. Tucked in behind his sweetheart, the good doctor will spend a long time studying the architecture of Sherlock's curls as he constructs soapy monuments with them. He'll dig fingertips into Sherlock's scalp until one of them moans. And then John will lift handful after handful of warm bath water and rinse those curls clean. It's not a speedy ritual this, and really that's the point.

* There's an interesting way to drive Sherlock right round the bend: Lavish attention on one of a pair of things. Like so: John woke one morning, found a nipple in his face, and did what any red-blooded adult male would do: He sucked it slow and contented until he again fell asleep. He woke to Sherlock insistently rubbing the other nipple against his lips. A week later the good doctor was offering a testicle similar devotions when Sherlock grunted and twisted, until the other ball was firmly mashed against John's mouth. John has since run tests with toes, earlobes, and butt cheeks. Sure enough, ignore one side over the other and Sherlock gets so fidgety he is inclined to fall right off the bed.

* Which leads to floor sex, usually. John's a fan and though he can't tell you why, he has theories. Theory the first: It feels illicit and the spice of illicit-but-not-illegal has always appealed to the Watsonian temperament. Theory the second: They once had sex under a four poster bed during a stakeout (it made deep and abiding sense at the time), and each came so lavishly John's been on a quest to reproduce the experience since. Theory the last: It's wrong and he knows it's wrong and it will always _be_ wrong but dear god the sight of Sherlock with rug burns sends John right round the giddy bend.

* Sherlock's a scientist through-and-through. Sometimes he'll buy the odd sex toy—no, he'll buy sex toys that are odd—because, of course, he's curious. That's why they possess a vibrator from 1903, a cock ring that doubles as a prostate massager, and something pointy and confusing once belonging to Isadora Duncan. The most unexpected toy Sherlock has purchased is a fluffy-soft cotton bunny tail. This might not sound like much until you put your mind to how such a tail might be…firmly kept in place. Let's just say every time Sherlock wears it he ardently encourages John to, uh, 'pet' it. Hard.

* John's got an odd quirk: He gets shy in sex shops. If you can even get him into one. Which you can't. Even if it's for a case (it wasn't, but still). The one time Sherlock managed to trick him into a Soho store John frowned sternly at his feet the entire minute he consented to be in the proximity of all those dildos and crotchless knickers and pornographic DVDs. So engrossed was Sherlock in trying to figure out how a strappy-flashing-lights thing worked, he didn't notice John had fled to the safety of the corner pub.

* If someone's going to develop an unusual side effect to medication, it'll be Sherlock. Setamol not only relieves pain a treat (John _told_ him he was going to have rug burns after) it makes Sherlock sneeze like a cat. Lineocan staves off infection (John _told_ him to keep that mould away from the rug burns) and makes Sherlock so loquacious even Mrs. Hudson asked him to shut it. And while emanephin vanquishes head lice (John _told_ him to keep his distance from the informant) it left Sherlock with such sensitive follicles he actually fell to his knees and nearly broke into song when John ran fingers through his hair. At least _this_ time he listened when John told him they should make use of _that_ side effect while it lasted.

* John Watson doesn't use chat-up lines. Any more. He employed plenty as a young man, but after developing that slow smile and sexy swagger his need for awkward come-ons diminished. And then there was Sherlock who, for quite awhile, _completely didn't get romantic subtlety._ Which was why, one night early on, when an alluring gaze was misconstrued, a gentle touch misinterpreted, and a whispered sweet nothing misunderstood John finally just looked his lover in the eye and said, "Basically, Sherlock, I want you to come upstairs and sit on my face so I can eat my way to your heart." _That_ the deductive genius totally got. So he did, and then _he_ did, and it was _fantastic._

* Sherlock's prouder than most and this pride is sometimes misplaced. Proof one: He won't accept his eyes are aging a teensy weensy little bit. The certainty of this was brought home one night when, after testing the tensile strength of lengths of silk, the sleepy, somewhat-inspired detective beribboned a penis he had, uh, erected for the occasion. He then photographed it and sent the result to John; call it a sweet little email surprise for the good doctor over morning tea. A surprise indeed it was. For Sherlock's mother. ("I told you, Sherlock. I did tell you. Squinting is not the same as _seeing.")_ After that Sherlock got reading glasses. He doesn't _wear_ them much, but at least now he _has_ them.

* John can eat with a speed that'd alarm a wolf pack. He rarely does because he's a quietly sensual man, one who enjoys _enjoying _things. But when the John wakes at 5:05 am because Sherlock's slammed the loo door, the bedroom door, the flat door, then the front door on his way to hail a cab, John knows he has one hundred twenty seconds to piss, dress, and eat. As such he's learned to piss while he dresses, and with the remaining minute make two sandwiches, the first voraciously consumed as he makes the second, and the second he's been known to literally shove down Sherlock's throat in the back of the cab. Those mornings they're both extremely alert when they reach their destination.

* Sherlock believes in geography. But for the longest time it was the urban geography of alleys and mews in which he put his faith, in hidden balconies and blind turns. He knew so much of London, where her twilight gathered, where her streetlights blazed, and he was fine with that, just that, because who needs love when there are clues, cases, and crowds ripe for the deducing? And then John introduced him to a far more alien terrain, a place with which he was only passing familiar: John acquainted him with the fine, sweet topography of his own heart, and that's when everything changed.

* John believes in geography. But the good doctor's geography is writ small: It's in the valleys between Sherlock's fingers, the tiny mountain of a nipple, it's the river of words his husband babbles as he comes. John's geography is the hurricane pulse at Sherlock's neck, the warm hollow between collar bones, the gradient from belly to chest to nose. Sherlock will alter, and already he grouses as his body changes with age, but no matter the tectonic shifts of pale skin and long bone, John will remain a devoted explorer of his much-cherished, and well-loved Sherlockian terrain.

_Thank you Nearlyalmostlover for wanting something about John washing Sherlock's hair, and Exit-stage-crowley for reminding me of that quote where Ben professes he's got sensitive follicles. Inspector Snuggles provided __the wonderfully awful pickup line, and the bunny tail? That beauty came from the legendary Random Nexus. Finally, Bookworm0902 wanted to know more about Sherlock sending his mum that beribboned photo, as I mentioned in chapter 14 of "Feeding Sherlock."__ Thank you all! (Been laid low with the flu, more "Long Time Coming," when I'm not coughing up a kidney.)_


	39. Chapter 39

* A man should not inhale so sharply there's a nasal rupture. However, this is the third nosebleed John's had in as many months and he sees no end in sight, not if a certain consulting detective continues falling to his knees each time John wears a tuxedo, _then _proceeds to suck him off _through his pants and trousers._ Each time this has happened John's been so keenly aroused he was dripping blood onto loo tiles long before groaning, "Oh god _yes."_

* Sherlock likes churches. An agnostic man, his attachment has nothing to do with piety and everything to do with intrigue. Because you have absolutely _no _idea how often a cornered criminal will come clean in the sanctity of the sacristy. Over the years it's happened so frequently that Sherlock's developed something of a fondness for steeples, naves, and transepts. It does not hurt that the two times a case required him to pose as a priest John was inspired to such fine blasphemies that Sherlock may, years later, _still_ be sitting a bit funny.

* John's been offered free rides, long rides, hard rides; he's been tempted with rides both fast and slow. With a lascivious lick of the lips and fingers fondling a knob or a stick, he's been invited to get in, get on, get going. But John Watson, despite years of offers from a wide range of interested parties, has felt no pressing need to learn to drive a car. The closest the good doctor's got to taking the wheel was when a certain detective discussed a client who had experienced multiple orgasms in a Maserati. With a bit more probing John discovered the sex had nothing to do with a motor vehicle in motion, and more to do with what two men intently inclined could get up to inside one.

* Sherlock's a cuddler. As a little boy he'd tuck kittens under his chin, bring puppies to his mouth. As a hormonal teen the one longing he never vanquished was the desire to _hold_ someone. And then one day a ridiculously small army doctor fit himself perfectly between rangy arms and a years-long hunger was finally fed. Except, well, when John's not around, and it's cold, and everyone's annoying, and he needs to _think,_ and he can't _think_ because it's cold and everyone's annoying and _John_ isn't around…well it's those disagreeable days that Sherlock plucks the good doctor's tatty green dressing gown from the hook back of the loo door, curls on the bed with it, and cuddles himself calm.

* John's a relentlessly hopeful man, as a doctor you have to be or you'll go mad. You hope this patient will beat the odds, hope that one will finally stay quit, you hope and you hope and over time you get pretty damn good at hoping. Which is by way of explaining why John continues to purchase fire extinguishers for 221B despite the fact that absolutely every time Sherlock's used one he has succeeded in emptying the entire canister without once actually vanquishing a blaze.

* When they're retired John's pretty sure he'll be able to write a gripping memoir made up entirely of stories where Sherlock has 1) accidentally set himself on fire or 2) intentionally set something on fire to make a point he could as well have made _using his words._ The most recent in that latter category came when Sherlock set out to prove that yes you so _can_ set tea on fire. Though the consulting detective completely cheated by setting tea _bags _aflame, he also 1) accidentally set the kitchen table on fire, 2) accidentally set himself on fire while futilely emptying a fire extinguisher kind of near the blaze.

* John is an enabler. If Sherlock wants to run through London in search of clues by night, even though data could be gathered just as well in daylight, John's there. If Sherlock wants John's new mobile instead of his own because John's is faster/shinier/quieter/smaller/bigger, John gives him his new mobile. And if Sherlock stomps from the room in a tantrum because the sun's too bright, a case dull, the telly insipid, John will absolutely follow him. After listening to Sherlock's list of grievances he'll tell his darling he's an idiot or brilliant, that things will be better soon or shut it you silly git, he'll prod or pet, complain, kiss, or commiserate. What John will rarely do is _ignore_ Sherlock. Where the hell's the fun in _that?_

* If Sherlock becomes diabetic John will kill him. At this rate if Sherlock becomes diabetic John will not be surprised. All right, it's not really exactly that bad, 'it' being Sherlock's dubious breakfast habits. Once John had helped him relearn the art of _eating,_ the focus of Sherlock's morning meals remained fixed on sweet things. In this week alone those meals have consisted of: a couple of jam-slathered raisin scones; two bowls of sugar-frosted cereal; five packets of Maltesers ("I _hid_ those for a reason Sherlock!"); toast with jam and honey; fruit-on-the-bottom yoghurt with added jam; three pieces of cake left over from Angelo's sister's birthday. Why Sherlock is not two stone heavier and in need of an insulin pump remains to John a mystery.

* It's common knowledge that John's sexual history before Sherlock was wide-ranging, varied, and essentially single gender-specific. As such it's natural to think it would be awkward should the good doctor run across old girlfriends now that he has a boyfriend. It's not. Well not for John and, after the first four times, not for Sherlock. John's ease comes from happiness; from the day-in-day-out sense that the puzzle pieces finally fit. Sherlock's eventual ease came when he realised this very important thing: _He_ was the reason for John's happiness. (A complete aside that does not leave this room: Only one ex was in a snit over John's new lover and it had nothing to do with gender and everything to do with envy over that lover's really quite magnificent behind.)

* The first time Sherlock asked a man on a date he didn't mean it. In an effort to get to a reclusive art historian, one with detailed knowledge of seventeenth century Brugian painters, Sherlock asked her brother out for coffee—an invitation the man readily accepted, a date he eagerly kept, an assignation for which he even purchased a new suit. Sherlock never showed, having gained the needed information elsewhere, but for the jilted man in the new suit all was not lost. After drinking far too much coffee and eating too many crisps, he at last realised he was done saying yes to every pretty boy with a pulse. In the end he ran off to Bruges, met a nice, plain-spoken solicitor, and he sends his sister regards every Hanukkah and each birthday.

* Sherlock's an eccentric man, and will often choose convolution over clarity simply because the former's more interesting. Which explains why, instead of writing on warehouse walls, floors, or furnishings when push came to lack-of-notepad during a case, he stripped John to the waist and—in a flash-bright blaze of deductive brilliance—scrawled on his lover's skin the dozens of steps the forger had taken from Bonn to Brighton and back again. The thing is, even after Sherlock had written the proof, he kept writing, there in warehouse shadow. It wasn't until they got home, long after Sherlock transcribed his notes, that John read his own belly, his back, collar bone, biceps, read a sweet and cryptic ode hidden away amidst the broadly-scrawled evidence: _forever…you…John…always…always…ever…you…John…alway s._

* It was a year later John penned his reply. The case had been a bad one—too many conflicting goals, too many voices, expectations far too high. But Sherlock had won in the end and three children who might have been forever broken were instead only bruised. But so too was Sherlock. Which was why, while his sweetheart slept dead to the world after, John scrawled on his deep-breathing body a familiar litany, one that's never lost its sweetness for Sherlock. _Brilliant,_ said a wrist, thigh, both long feet. _Amazing_ said a back and the high curve of bum. _Incredible, fantastic, extraordinary_ were scattered again and again across a pale and delicate canvas. But written only once was the word _yours_ right where it belonged, there over Sherlock's fine, stout heart.

_For this _Minutiae_ (min-oo-sha) Semioticsofdeduction wanted to know how Sherlock feels about churches, Anarion gave me the prompt of fire extinguishers and the, uh, suit sucking; Meredydd wondered about the first time the boys asked others on a date, and K asked about John driving. A fan image of John's skin covered in words prompted the entries about them writing on one another's bodies._


	40. Chapter 40

* Genius often comes with a side of great and abiding ignorance. And usually genius is mighty-fine okay with that. Still, it can be shocking what the really bright don't know, and well past their fortieth anniversary John'll have yet to reach bottom of the obvious things of which Sherlock's ignorant. Today's shocker: The good detective had no clue crisps come from potatoes. When pressed he also had not one inkling that salt comes from the sea, and that vinegar from…vinegar from…well John wasn't really sure where vinegar came from either which completely negated the whole argument they were sort of half-having so never mind.

* It doesn't matter how many times Sherlock rolls his eyes and it doesn't matter how much of a rush they're in, John You-Just-Hush-Up-And-Keep-Quiet Watson is going to order the "fussy" caffeinated beverage he _wants_ and if that's a triple-shot, skinny, sugar-free half-caramel half-vanilla macchiato with a sprinkle of chocolate on top, then Mr. Flat White To Take Away can just stand over there in the corner and wait patiently or text someone or solve crime or do something about world peace while John orders his damn drink, okay?

* When Sherlock is bored Sherlock experiments. When he's very bored and there's no case for which to fashion a _proper _experiment, Sherlock just damn well makes shit up. His most recent foray into what-the-fuckery included inoculating a perfectly nice cheese with a syringe of very old brandy. This, on its own, sounds just a teensy bit fantastic. And it would have been, had he left the cheese _alone._ He did not. Over several days Sherlock proceeded to torment that cheese with human bile, human stomach acid, and human blood. When asked what purpose any of this could possibly serve in the history of _anything at all,_ Sherlock waved a dismissive hand and said something about digesting the cheese from the inside out. John did not pursue the matter.

* John should know better than to make jokes. He _should _but he emphatically does _not. _So over the years John'll joke about many things and only after his daft love says, "Interesting," will John realize his error. For example, after that cheese turned into something beautiful and horrifying—shot through with red veins and acidic pungency—John jokingly suggested giving it to Anderson. Realizing his hideous mistake he immediately binned the cheese. Sherlock secretly fetched it out however, and did indeed anonymously gift it. Anderson, as it happens, forgot the cheese on his desk over a bank holiday weekend and chucked it the following Tuesday. That was fortunate, as Sherlock would at last have committed his first felony murder.

* Sherlock had his very first hangover a year after meeting John. Before then he'd drank to drunkenness only once and, after tripping repeatedly, belching unexpectedly, and lisping so lavishly two men hit on him and a speech therapist offered her card, Sherlock avoided alcohol at all costs. Then John bought that weird green drink—abyss? abstinent? _absinthe—_and it looked interesting and glowy and tasted of liquorice and flowers and oh dear god speaking of flowers, the next morning Sherlock demanded some because certainly he'd woke up dead and therefore John needed to put them on his grave and after John made him drink water and juice and eat toast and he felt even partway human Sherlock dealt with his entirely misdirected anger by setting the rest of that damn bottle on damn fire.

* It looks like a charm bracelet at first glance. At second glance you notice it's entirely too small to be a charm bracelet. At third glance you realize the charms on this not-bracelet take the shape of a riding crop, butt plug, skull, key, and heart. At fourth glance you finally realize this silver piece of jewelry is a cock ring and, realising you were never meant to stumble upon this item, you put it down just where you found it—on the bookshelf beside the sofa—and you go back to your flat downstairs and you say absolutely nothing, therefore never knowing that John, who loves jewelry on Sherlock, bought the thing entirely on a whim, they've used it twice, and both times found that yes, those damn charms snag painfully in genital hair whether it's tightly curled brown-ginger or slightly straight blonde.

* Sherlock's a collector and his collections are as eccentric as he is. Skulls (human, bat, squirrel, dog), dead bugs (mostly flesh-eating), lab equipment (he's quite fond of the antique centrifuge), journals in which his monographs are published, and chopsticks. The smallest of Sherlock's collections, it is currently comprised of three pairs. The first chopsticks pair are black lacquer with red accents and he stole them from the restaurant at which John first publically kissed him. The second are green Bakelite and from the Vietnamese place on Marylebone, the site at which John first publically said _I love you._ The third are a disposable pair from Angelo's (who has a quite popular Thai-themed submenu) and Sherlock asked for them the evening of the day he answered John's marriage proposal with his own.

* By the time John completed his third deployment—if completed is the proper term when invalided out halfway through—all of his possessions could easily fit into the boot of a compact car. Once he settled into life at 221B, however, he began to again accrue things, as humans do. Currently tucked away on the top shelf of his wardrobe is one of Sherlock's old scarves (the one John may or may not have romanced—if romanced is the proper term for something over which you repeatedly wanked before you and your flatmate became lovers), Sherlock's old purple shirt (which was tight _before_ John managed to get a decent five kilos on the man), and Sherlock's first pair of stilettos (a quaintly simple basic black).

* Incidentally, some of Sherlock's collections are sartorial, though no one would call the detective a clothes horse as most of the attire he accumulates is case-related, including the priest's collar and high-vis jacket, the judge's robes and doctor's scrubs. By far his most extensive collection of vestments are the branded aprons or shirts he's "acquired" (stolen) from employees of the National Theatre, National Gallery, Natural History Museum, Criterion, Starbucks, Pret, and the Louvre. It goes without saying that a server is to most people invisible and Sherlock has gathered more clues impersonating one than John's got Moleskines to record. It also goes without saying that, over the years, Sherlock's 'costume' collection has grown to take over at least half of John's wardrobe.

* John's actually completely fine with giving up wardrobe space for Sherlock's getups because in exchange he may request his sweetheart wear—without complaint—anything in either wardrobe. Recently that request was for a grey leather jacket and matching fedora to be donned for dinner at Angelo's. That the restaurateur was the one who gave Sherlock these items—"I was a much thinner man before opening this place"—so Sherlock could pose as a well-known theatre actor was entirely coincidental. Less accidental was the sex John and Sherlock had later that night when the good detective was enticed to perform the completely salacious soliloquy for which that actor is most famously known.

* Sherlock had never done it before for anyone but he will always do it for John. And that is play dumb. No, no that's not right at all. What Sherlock will do is prowl a crime scene and while that brilliant gaze collects and collates, the great detective will search with care for something he doesn't know—but knows John will. It might be questions about the corpse's military uniform, an inquiry into post-death bruising, or whether a wool allergy would leave skin _that_ inflamed. Why Sherlock does this is simple: He wants everyone—at a crime scene, in court, at the Met, _anywhere_—to never forget that no matter how brilliant he himself is, John Watson belongs beside him, that he's necessary, he's needed, that he is and ever will be absolutely vital to Sherlock Holmes.

* John hadn't really done it much with his past lovers, the whole sexual marking thing. It seemed a bit childish and he didn't quite see the appeal. He began realising the error of his ways their first summer together when he noticed two red scratch marks trailing from his lover's neck and into his collar. Later that same month he saw a toothy bruise near the inside of Sherlock's elbow. That's when John understood: Sherlock was marking himself, marking himself as _wanted._ Soon after that the good doctor learned to _love_ leaving marks, so when Sherlock bared his neck, John bared his teeth. When Sherlock scratched him softly, John scratched back hard. And when he could he kissed Sherlock where people would see, telling all of them, everyone, without words: "This man, this one, _him. _Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

_This slightly wardrobe-focused Minutiae (min-oo-sha) was inspired when Justgot1 asked to know more about why Sherlock has a fedora and grey leather jacket, as mentioned in "__All That Glitters." Thank you Justgot1, and thank you __Starshine24mc for asking about their hangovers, Meredydd for the charm bracelet cock ring idea, while the potato debacle came from a wee fic I wrote for Catalystcml's wonderful Sherlock-in-Heels Tumblr blog. And I swear unto Benedict's bum that I'll post "Long Time Coming," next week or someone may revoke my Benedict's bum worshipping licence._


	41. Chapter 41

* John sucks, and John likes it. Sherlock likes it too, especially when John does it during sex. As of late the things John sucks are Sherlock's curls. He learned he loved it early in their relationship, but didn't develop a full-blown fetish until Sherlock crawled into bed one night this summer, ringlets dripping from a shower, and as he proceeded to avail himself of John's spread-legged welcome, the good doctor sucked at those dark, damp locks until his sweetheart came. That Sherlock then masturbated John to orgasm while 1) still seated deeply inside him and 2) John continued to mouth a ringlet, is when the good doctor's pretty sure the fetish well and truly took hold.

* First Sherlock fingered it and said that it tickled. Then he rubbed his cheek against it and groused that it tickled. He then kissed it and grumbled that it _really_ tickled. Finally he sat on John's face and pushed his cock firmly in place, then Sherlock humped and groaned, he sighed and he moaned and complained while he was coming that it _tickled._ Afterward he kissed it again, drew one on his own face with pen, then he straddled John's chest and shaved his damn moustache off 'cause it _prickled._

* John once grew a burly beard for a kink club case where he had to go undercover as a 'bear' (he gave Lestrade an earful when the DI looked the diminutive doctor up and down and pronounced him a _baby_ bear). John also grew a goatee for the case where he posed as a fashion designer, but the very _first _time John grew a moustache was for their 'Coffee King' case and honestly the only thing that made the infernal itching tolerable was the entertainment Sherlock provided being _intolerable_ about the prickly ticklishness of the thing.

* Speaking of coffee, a few cups leaves Sherlock perky, but any more than three and it's goodnight Vienna. This recently discovered fact came courtesy of that 'Coffee King' case though even now Sherlock maintains caffeine doesn't affect him. John begs to differ. On more than one occasion he's come downstairs of a morning after his sweetheart's been reading case notes all night, only to discover his daft love passed out face first on the sofa, an empty coffee pot just about clutched in his fist.

* Not that John's much better about admitting some things because, like everyone else, the good doctor has a raft of items about which he's still in denial, and right now hailing cabs is one of those things. As in John will not admit he's been making a study of Sherlock's cab-flagging technique and then studiously imitating those self same mannerisms. To his delight this has increased his cab-snagging ability by 30%; to his displeasure he's come to realize that the other 70% would require a further six inches height and an infernal bat-winged great coat.

* While we're tangentially still on coffee, the Baker Street boys are often in cafes near the Yard or a courthouse, but it doesn't matter how engrossed they get in the minutiae of a case, John always notices the chattery idiots in cafe corners, the kind who've maybe taken _a solitary single breath_ in the last twenty minutes and used that fine and precious thing to break up with their girlfriend, ask her to get them a coffee, then denigrate her very nice jumper after she did. Yes John would do well to block such things out but he can't and so he copes with his need to choke the life out of such little shits by eating his cake with a knife, an action that if done right requires a great deal of _stabbing._

* While we're on about what some people do notice, we can talk about what some don't and John can tell you for a fact that in the buzzing hub-bub of a coffee shop Sherlock can become so deeply engrossed in a case file, a call, or counting to infinity for all anyone knows, that the super genius won't notice a barista dropping a tray of cups not four feet from his curly-haired head; he won't notice he's eaten the carrot cake from the plate of a stranger across from him; and he definitely won't notice that the barista's been flirting with him for the last three days or didn't he see the phone number the man keeps writing on the back of Sherlock's receipts?

* When given a chance Sherlock will try to half-suffocate himself. Mostly he doesn't _get_ the chance because usually he's spooning or being spooned, but on the occasional occasion when Sherlock sleeps alone he still passes out mostly on his face. As a matter of fact, in those initial weeks as flatmates, John frequently crept up on his sofa-dozing flatmate to check that yes, one half of one nostril _was_ unimpeded and the crazy git seemed to be getting enough oxygen. But maybe only just. Which would explain a whole lot of things if you think about it.

* John's actually a little peeved about this. Of course he'll never say anything to Greg because it wasn't Greg's fault, and anyway if you had a chance to take a close look at Sherlock's arse wouldn't you? It's not even that Greg ever brought it up and you know what? Maybe that's why John's a little aggravated, okay? Because maybe Greg could have mentioned it himself; possibly the day they met, all right? Certainly before he stood as best man at John's _wedding._ That the good doctor learned about it from Sherlock as he rubbed burn ointment on his husband's arse after the big dope put out a small kitchen fire with his own backside is what's really irritating John, okay? Well that and the fact that Sherlock seems incapable of using a fire extinguisher correctly but _never mind._

* Sherlock has no problem stripping to gather clues, a fact Gregory Lestrade learned during the Paisley Parrot case. Because _someone_ had to go into that sauna and ascertain if the suspect could have fired the grenade-launcher one-handed, and just as the DI was about to assign one of the junior constables to do his duty there went Sherlock, bare as a bone but for a towel wrapped at his waist. He emerged twenty minutes later, dropped the fig-leaf, and presented his bare arse to the detective inspector. It took Greg a good four seconds to gather his wits and his professionalism then take measurements and photos of the very distinct red handprint on Sherlock's left butt cheek. Those photos cleared the suspect (his hand was far too small), and found their way to several floors of the Met by day's, um, _end._

* John believes in the sacred, though not the divine. He's seen too much pain over too many years to have an unquestioning faith. That didn't stop the good doctor from taking Sherlock into a tiny Cotswolds church after a difficult case left his husband moody, short-tempered, and self-critical. Once there, amidst moonlight and murmured protests, John tugged his recalcitrant love toward the empty altar and then with his own murmured words coaxed him onto it. Only once Sherlock was laid down, a scowling angel in soft silver light, did John begin to worship. And to pray.

* Sherlock had a litany he recited when he was young, words murmured to himself to shield against the words others shouted. For every _freak_ or_ poof,_ Sherlock whispered _rare, unique._ For each_ faggot _or _weirdo,_ Sherlock murmured _special, smart. _In the end these simple mantras worked. The words were enough, just enough to help Sherlock survive until things got better. Then one day an army doctor taught him a new and finer prayer—_brilliant, amazing, fantastic, love_—and with those few and sacred words took Sherlock Holmes well beyond simply surviving.

_The moustache thing was inspired by an exchange between Livia Carica and Random Nexus and let's pretend I rhymed things well enough that it turned into a perfectly awful limerick. In other news, it's probably improper how many times I'm prompting myself lately, but the Greg-sees-Sherlock's-arse came from chapter nine of a "Long Time Coming" and John sucking on Sherlock's curls came from chapter five of "A Little Birdie Told Me..." Meanwhile the cab hailing thing was from a lovely AO3 anon, thank you!_


	42. Chapter 42

* Sherlock knows better than to deduce from too little data but guess what? Sometimes he'll do it anyway. The reasons are varied and include: wanting to annoy the shit out of someone (Anderson, Donovan, the barista who calls John "Squirt"). Other times he's bored and wants to hear the sound of his own voice. Sometimes he just wants to show off. But the best and most frequent reason Sherlock deduces from too little data is that when you fast-talk a raft of _wrong_ into someone's face? _They will correct you._ This is a superb way to ensnare an egotistical embezzler, in case you're wondering.

* It's true that the first days they were lovers John debated the whole public-display-of-affection thing. The world's a damaged place and the good doctor had no desire to expose his lover to more insults than he already endured. And then Sherlock took John's hand in Hyde park and didn't let it go for a long, meandering stroll round the Serpentine. By the time they'd walked themselves tired that day, by the time they were in the middle of a busy Vietnamese restaurant later that night, John's debate was over. It was then he said in public for the first time, but very much not the last, "I love you Sherlock."

* Sherlock got drunk on sugar once. If that's possible. Which it emphatically is. If Sherlock's anything to go by. Which maybe he's not. But still. The things on which Sherlock got quite shit-faced were boiled sweets in a veritable rainbow of pinks and oranges, greens and blues. Watching a four-part BBC series on flesh-eating bugs all in one go, Sherlock had distractedly chewed on so many candies that he got hyper _and_ lethargic, giggly and morose. Eventually he just passed out cold on the sofa only to wake to John's mad giggling. It turns out that in sleep Sherlock had upended the remaining sweets and set about, well, sleeping on them. Come morning he not only woke bleary-eyed to that infernal laughter, but to a couple dozen glittery-bright candies stuck in his curls. Neither of these did his sugar hangover a jot of good _at all._

* As he neared the age of thirty John gained a few new traits. That's when the swagger fully flowered, it's then he discovered he's a natural marksman, and about then is when John gained the ability to _gain weight._ He'd been a small, slim thing for all his adult life until that point and so it took awhile before John noticed the wee layer at his middle and the fullness to his face, and even when he did he figured _trick of the light._ It wasn't until he couldn't button the jeans he'd had since he was twenty-two that John realised his four-pints-followed-by-fish-and-chips days were about to be, if not over, then annoyingly curtailed.

* Sherlock believes what John says; he's never had reason not to. So when John long ago told him he'd be a chubby old man, Sherlock shrugged, thought _probably so,_ and forgot about it. Of course John proved right. It didn't really start until the good detective hove into sight of sixty and his sweet tooth had long since flowered into tooth, arm, and leg for good measure. Which is to say if Sherlock could follow a case, a clue, a kiss, a small fight, or a good deep breath with a piece of cake, a brace of biscuits, or a handful of sweets he emphatically did. When the evidence started mounting at his middle Sherlock did at sixty what he'd done twenty-five years previous: He shrugged, murmured something like _I knew it,_ and stole the chocolate icing off John's fairy cake.

* John's a very detailed dreamer. If you ask him the moment he wakes what the barometric pressure was in his and Sherlock's underground sex cave he'll know. If you enquire as to the colour of his dream nail varnish or the dimensions of Sherlock's bunny tail anal plug John can tell you. However, if you wait with your inquiries until John's stretched, scratched his belly, or emptied his bladder, the good doctor will barely remember whether he got off in his dream. It'll then be up to the world's only consulting detective to detect whether good doctor Watson _has_ come or _will_ come. Despite the evidence being quite clear—it's difficult to confuse damply flaccid with belly-slapping erect—Sherlock's manual clue-gathering will be, as ever, meticulous.

* Sherlock was a very regular little boy once, though only for awhile. When he was a baby of one and still learning to crawl, he'd scoot _everywhere,_ but he especially loved being where big brother lay belly down, building castles with blocks. He'd crawl close and he'd knock those blocks _down_ and Mycroft would murmur, "Maybe when he's two he'll be better." And when Sherlock was two and toddling round giddy, he'd stumble right over to big brother's puzzles and gleefully pull them to pieces, and Mycroft would sigh and say, "Maybe when he's three he'll be better." And then Sherlock _was_ three, and four, and five and Mycroft realised Sherlock was different, so very different, that he was like _him,_ and that made Mycroft feel, well that made Mycroft feel so very much _better. _

* John turned into a nature boy this summer, repeatedly tumbling Sherlock down into tall grass when a case had them driving between London and a farm fifty miles north. That first time they'd simply stopped to admire thousands of bees darning the air over a field of wild flowers, but each time after John watched Sherlock watching those bees, saw the intensity of his gaze, the delight in his eyes…and, well, John _had_ to tackle his love into soft grass, pull his trousers and pants barely low enough, then bring his sweetheart off amidst the busy, busy buzzing. Is it any wonder John wrote that adventure up as _A Case of the Birds and the Bees?_

* It happened just the once and while it was happening both did nothing, just watched open-mouthed. Lying in that tall grass, spent and drowsy and slicked with their own come, what they watched were two curious bees as they landed on Sherlock's shallow-breathing belly, tickling with their tiny feet, and then…_harvesting _the thick white fluid they found cooling there, one so bold it gathered from the still-dripping source. It wasn't until those busy, busy bees had gone away and returned three times, it wasn't until Sherlock was quite dizzy from barely breathing, that John noticed his lover was again half-hard.

* John thought maybe he was barmy that first time, letting Sherlock get near him with a razor. But everyone knows the good doctor enjoys a whiff of danger, so yes, he lets Sherlock shave him now and again. And while he relishes feeling Sherlock looming so close he can feel his body heat, and while he enjoys the gentle way Sherlock takes hold of his jaw with one hand while he rasps a razor over skin with the other, John loves most of all the soft, steady huff of Sherlock's breath against his face and how sometimes the speed of it, the smell of it, the heat of that breath changes. That's when John knows Sherlock wants to take hold of other things.

* Even now Sherlock thinks he's beyond certain human behaviours. Which is why he's never noticed that he slings an arm around John's shoulders when it rains, as if the lee of his big body will protect his little love from a drenching. Sherlock's also never realised that he has the habit of cuddling John to his chest like a child when the man is sick. And the man who sees everything doesn't see that he wraps his hands briefly around one of John's when they exchange a mobile, keys, a quid. Sherlock knows he'd die to protect John, he doesn't yet know that all day every day he bends his big body toward John's smaller one, to surround, to safeguard…even if from nothing more than a summer shower.

* John's always been protective. If he could localise caring, point to a place in his body where the driving need to _defend _lives, he'd probably press a palm to his chest. Because it was there he felt the ache as he ran through a night-dark college after a consulting detective and a cabbie. And it was right there he felt sympathy pains in those early months together, when he'd hear the starved growl of Sherlock's belly. And as the years pass, that drive, that need to keep Sherlock safe, well it's become something like a second heartbeat inside him, pumping not blood but will. Will to push himself through another long night, down another dark alley, into another sterile court room. That will moves his limbs, sharpens his mind, steadies his aim, it keeps him near Sherlock, his shadow, his gun hand, ever and always, his protector.

_Bloody hell, this makes 506 entries for "Minutiae" (min-oo-sha). Your prompts are a huge reason for that number, and for that I thank you so much. Want to know more about our boys? Please prompt me—I'll happily write "Minutiae" to 1,000 and beyond. In the meantime: Thank you to lovely Chocolamousse, who wanted to know about the first time John stated his love in public, and to Rifleman_s, who asked about John and Sherlock growing old and plump together, as mentioned in __"Skullduggery. A tip of the cap to Verity Burns for toddler!Lock, and also to Marlboro Blanc, who said "man honey;" it's only natural that bees collecting come was the first thing that came to my mind. Thank you everyone for reading and being a wonderful part of "Minutiae."_


	43. Chapter 43

* John does not mortify easily. It's been said before but here it is again: The good doctor's been puked on, pissed on, shouted at, and belittled times past counting—and all by children under the age of eight. So John's made of stern stuff, but when Greg brought that black light to 221B to help search for the stolen gems they were sure the thief had stashed in their flat? Well John just about died in front of half the Met, because rubies aren't the only damn things that fluoresce under black light. Semen does too, and you know what? A certain amount of, uh, _residue,_ in the loo and bedroom is expected, even heartily encouraged in the rah-rah-go-boys sort of way, but it's difficult to explain why it's also on the front of the fridge, in the bread box, and across the kitchen ceiling.

* Sherlock does not feel contrition easily. And neither does he apologise for something he may or may not have done _before ever even meeting John._ And even if Sherlock _did_ recently do a few experiments with blood—which _also_ happens to fluoresce under black light—there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. Any scientist working with human remains will have found himself at one time or other tainted with the stuff, which _clearly_ explains why there's blood residue on the mantle, the mirror above the mantle, spattered across every single floor, inside four kitchen cabinets, and on John's toothbrush. _Which Sherlock can explain if John would just stop yelling for just one minute already._

* John's first words were the same first words of babies everywhere, and sometimes he'd spend entire minutes happily mumbling mumumum and dadadada while clutching his own fingers or kicking his legs just to watch them move. His third word, fourth, and fifth are lost to the mists of time but what he knows—because the story was repeated many times during his growing up years—is that one of the handful of first words John learned not only to say but to use correctly was _Yes._

* You'd probably think Sherlock's first words were blood, exudate, or absolutely not, but they weren't. Exactly like a normal little boy Sherlock also started with mumumum and dada, but it was his third word that he learned by something more than rote, it was his third word that he'd squeal at a frequency that caused pain, and that word was, "My, My, My!" That Sherlock would continue to call his big brother this long after he could easily say the boy's entire name…well it doesn't take a Holmes-quality genius to figure out that Sherlock was making something of a statement about exactly who belonged to whom.

* John's going through a an odd phase for a man over forty: He's using diminutives. To describe himself. He started doing it accidentally—"your stroppy husband, that's who," somehow came out as "your stroppy little husband"—which had instantly turned Sherlock's grousing into grinning and nothing reinforces like positive reinforcement. Which pretty much explains why Mrs. Hudson looks so tired this morning. Late last night, after a brilliant and successful chase, John called himself Sherlock's own "baby bad arse," and then they both went about proving it at two in the morning. Twice.

* Sherlock's ready to admit that _maybe _people are _sometimes_ more observant than he was _perhaps_ giving them credit for. This grudging admission comes courtesy of a dead squid's ruptured fecal sac. Once the rot-bloated object unexpectedly ejected its contents all over Sherlock's face it was technically not possible to get to the shower fast enough. Wherein Sherlock discovered they were out of shampoo. Wherein Sherlock ran downstairs, broke into Mrs. Hudson's flat, and stole hers. The grudging admission came a day later when eight people at the Met—_eight,_ including a woman arrested for stealing a hundred pairs of used dentures—complimented him on his mango-scented curls.

* John's patiently sat through a six-day court case so he could give a two sentence testimony; he once let a toddler pull his arm hair for fifteen minutes in exchange for staying still for stitches; and he has not one time stopped Sherlock's quarterly retelling of the time an elephant ejaculated on Anderson. But John's always been an indifferent queuer, so when a drunken Dick and Dickier got behind him at Tesco and started mouthing off about a clerk's nationality, sexuality, and stature, John did something interesting. He asked those around him if they were okay with his shutting up the loud mouths. Everyone was fine with it. One woman volunteered to hold his groceries. Another offered to pay for his wine. Later that evening John enjoyed a hearty serving of self-righteous vindication and a large glass of a very nice red. Right after Sherlock picked him up from jail.

* Sherlock's absolutely positive you can't get a caffeine high this way but he's run three experiments so far and _every_ time he's ended hyper-alert, motor-mouthed, and with some really unexpected giggling. And okay, though he'll admit that maybe he _isn't_ absolutely positive you can't get a caffeine high by sucking off your husband after he's mainlined five espresso, Sherlock's a scientist down to his last jangling nerve and so help him he's going to gather more data on this even if it means staying awake until Christmas.

* The first time John spanked Sherlock—just one flat-handed slap—it was because his lover was parading around the downstairs hall bare-bones naked ("I needed to fetch the _post_ John"), and he was trying to hasten Sherlock back up to their flat. But so delighted was John with the resulting fleshy jiggle, that he now often swats that juicy rump when flaunted in similarly inappropriate ways. Far from being punishing or pornographic, these sweet slaps send John into such delighted giggling fits that Sherlock's secretly taken to being malapropos even more often.

* A journalist recently asked Sherlock what he was superstitious about—presuming he must be, wasn't everyone? Sherlock disabused him of this notion with a ten-minute lecture on unfounded beliefs, the extortionist price of flat whites, and his detailed thoughts on ascots. And then a few days later Mrs. Hudson tried talking to Sherlock about her end-of-life wishes. Once he understood the conversation they were having Sherlock bolted from his chair and backed away, waving a hand as if to erase her words. When the good lady followed, Sherlock said in an odd, breathy whisper, "No, we can't talk about that. That's…it's not good to talk about that." It took two flat whites and an hour of handholding before she managed to calm him down.

* John takes Sherlock up on the roof of 221B when the nights, and their lives, have gone too still. Up there is an old wood bench, worn almost soft with age. John places on it a pillow, himself, and he tugs Sherlock to his chest, binds him with his arms, and then John _gets busy._ Soft and quick in a consulting ear the good doctor conjures motion and mystery, muttering fanciful stories from his army days, med school days, he makes things up, outlandish and absurd, for a half hour, an hour, two or even more. He stops only when Sherlock's muscles relax and his breath comes easy.

* Sometimes Sherlock takes John onto the roof of 221B when their lives have gone frenetic, when they've spent the week in a blur of dead ends, deductions, and pursuit, and there Sherlock will tug John against his chest and they'll go briefly still. Then Sherlock tells John which parts of the case still baffle him, the parts that amuse, maybe shock. He'll praise John for insights, tease him for seeing past the obvious, point out tiny facts everyone's missed. He stops only when John's a festival of fidgets, pent up breath, a thrumming heart beneath warm skin. That's when he'll whisper _let's go_ and then—off into the night on another adventure—they do.

_SweetLateJuliet offered a suite of wonderful prompts including ones about Mrs. Hudson's passing and superstitions; A Field of Deadly Nightshades asked how the boys cope with slow queues; Mugglemom08 offered a delightful prompt about spanking, while tweeting with __ melaniemf lead to thoughts of hyper-caffeinating in a very special way. P.S. My schedule went briefly erratic but regular Thursday publication (with occasional Monday stories, too) resumes…NOW!_


	44. Chapter 44

* Sherlock dreams in white and quiet. When his subconscious orders itself, it usually does so with the simple scud of clouds, a meander of rain, a wind-tossed leaf. But sometimes Sherlock dreams of sex, and these dreams, oh they're something else again. Sherlock's sexual dreams are lavish things: They're wet with sweat, warm with sated flesh; they're noisy as a band, complex as a symphony, sweet as a moan. When Sherlock dreams of sex he shifts across the sheets, breathes open-mouthed, gets hard. And sometimes when Sherlock dreams of sex, John wakes. And John watches.

* John's favourite way of being tugged from sleep is by a kick to the shins. Sherlock's rarely a restless sleeper, so when a knee or an elbow pokes him awake, John knows why. That's when John rubs his eyes, lowers a hand to start rubbing something else, and takes in a show. His favourite parts include the vocal segment—Sherlock's moans are breathy, nothing like his usual deep noises. He also enjoys watching Sherlock's long body thrust—or spread wide to receive. But the bit John loves, the moments that have him softly keening, are those when Sherlock comes. His pleasure seems to go on so sweetly long—and the entire time he's smiling.

* It's not like anyone expects anything different, and in this way Sherlock's absolutely delighted to be predictable, so when they go to the movies—once a year, John tries this just once a year—Sherlock does not disappoint. At first he fidgets there in the dark, an arms-and-legs restlessness that rocks the entire row. Then he makes bored noises, huffs and sniffs and long-suffering sighs. Once he's exhausted the charms of these diversions Sherlock Holmes_ combines._ The row continues to rock, the breathy noises persist, but the reasons for these disturbances change. Let's just say that eventually Sherlock finds something to do with himself there in the dark. Yes. Let's just say that.

* About this John admits he's predictable, so predictable it's embarrassing, but he's not giving it up any time soon. _It_ is the telly remote and his recently-developed need to control the thing. If he even vaguely suspects they'll be watching, John picks up the small device in advance and shoves it in his back pocket. If he joins Sherlock after viewing's in progress he takes the object right out of his lover's giant paw. And god forbid Sherlock tries taking it back. Every single time that happens the resulting scuffle leaves both of them sweaty and confusingly erect. John's recently come to realise that maybe _that's the point_ and Sherlock is doing it on purpose. Which would totally just figure. He's _so_ predictable.

* Through all the years they'll be together Sherlock will touch John when John sleeps. They call these midnight caresses butterfly touches and they're legacy of that long ago time when Sherlock was too self-conscious to show desire when John was awake. John knows Sherlock still occasionally indulges in these affections, but what John doesn't know, because Sherlock's never told him, is that once in a great while such touches make John _talk._ Many nights over their long marriage Sherlock will pursue these rare monologues, and will always be smugly pleased when the nuzzle of his nose or the flutter of long fingers at last elicit from his sweetheart a dreamy, "Ohhh," or "Darling…"

* John knows Sherlock sometimes touches him while he slumbers. What Sherlock doesn't know, because John's never told him, is that sometimes those touches lead to _such _dreams. They're candle-lit and humid these reveries, they glitter with jewels, whisper with silks, and nine damn times out of ten there's a canopied bed or a gold-trimmed tent or a white stallion for Christ's sake. What John's trying to say—by not saying it at all though he's not sure why—is that on those evenings when his love loves him in this way John dreams of forbidden desire, midnight trysts, and ravishment on satin sheets. And oh god _damn_ those dreams are good.

* Occasionally Sherlock is moved to harmless vandalism. The persons upon which he visits his hooliganism are John Watson and Gregory Lestrade, both of whom find their mobiles manhandled. Last week Greg learned that Sherlock was now in his address book as Mr. Pretty. Because he's a practical man and the moniker is true, the DI just left it as-is. That same week John found himself in a public gents when his sweetheart rang. His custom ring tone was now a deep-voiced, "Bend me over, John, oh god bend me over." The good doctor was so startled at this he clenched mid-stream and nearly did himself a mischief. Later he made sure he did one to Sherlock. _Bend me over_ indeed.

* For various impossible cases John has consumed six kinds of bugs, including crickets, centipedes, and scorpions. He's said a sad prayer and proceeded to nibble roasted parakeet, camel, and kangaroo. For one case he refused to write up afterward, John drank sterilised urine mixed with hot beer. But the day he was asked to put a tarantula prepared ceviche-style in his mouth the good doctor stood, gathered his Moleskines and his dignity, and left the crime scene. There are some lines John Watson will not cross and being as tarantulas were, for all intents and purposes, his first 'puppies,' well that's damn well one of them.

* It's a propensity developed only in the last few years, Sherlock's tendency to tumble. You'd think a man as large as the good detective would be unlikely to fall out of bed, off a chair, or from the snug confines of a sofa, but as the man gets older he's come to do these things nearly as often as he sets himself on fire—which is really quite saying something. John's fairly certain it's because Sherlock keeps taking rooms in his mind palace labeled 'safety' or 'self-preservation,' or 'sheer god-given common sense,' and giving them over to 'better ways to burn stuff,' and 'how to fuck John so thoroughly he gets another nosebleed.' John Watson is not far wrong.

* Four, that's how many, all right? Four orgasms over the space of three hours during a bank holiday weekend when John was twenty-five. Her name was Brooklynn and they'd known each other for three weeks and she had a way of growling "doctor" at him that sent heat right to his cock. She was the first woman to ever make him come with a blow job and he was the first man to ever do _that_ to her _there,_ and their relationship lasted eight months and nine days and yes, included one morning where John came four times. If Mr. Pretty wants to know more John is certain he could pretend to remember what kind of condoms they used, the flavour of the lube, and on precisely which surfaces they went at it.

* Sherlock's big all over. Big mouth, big brain, big temperament, all of him, everywhere is over-sized. He uses that, dominating with one immensity or another, a wool-draped bulldozer and proud of it. But sometimes, just sometimes, Sherlock willingly tucks that bigness small. He'll pull in arms and legs the better to fit into the curve of John's body. He'll close his eyes so that John is the one to see. And miracle of miracles Sherlock will even go quiet so that John's silences can speak. He doesn't do this often, no not really. But just enough, Sherlock does it just often enough…

* John's asked Sherlock to tone it down, keep quiet, say it differently, _be_ different dozens of times. And he'll do it _every_ time Sherlock's tendency toward theatrics hurts instead of helps. But John will never ask Sherlock to _un_Sherlock for _him._ Because here's the thing: If his choice is the rain of a raging storm or desert austerity, John's going to choose a drenching every time. And if his choice is asking Sherlock to change, or accepting the bit-not-good in exchange for the man's devotion, his passion, his beauty, and his love—well is anyone really at all surprised by John's choice?

_So Livi Ceja wondered what would happen if John was watching Sherlock have a sexy dream, while __SweetLateJuliet asked if there's anything the boys won't eat. __Meredydd figured Sherlock'd be listed on John's phone as Mr. Pretty, while __ScienceWolf asked what happens when the boys go to the movies. And finally, the penultimate entry of this chapter of "Minutiae" (min-oo-sha) was inspired by __Justgot1's beautiful "the whole of yesterday went falling."_


	45. Chapter 45

* John has a fool-proof way to manage boredom. When tired of afternoon chat shows, acrid kitchen fumes, or his own ennui, the good doctor rings up Lestrade and promises him a pint in exchange for a medical consult or bit of legwork. These cases are just for him, for John learned early on that his consulting princess will rarely emerge for anything less than a six. So the good doctor does not ask, he simply gathers his tools—a Moleskine, a pen, an empty folder if he's feeling hopeful—and off he goes. Unless something unboring occurs between phone call and departure. Yes, unless that.

* Sherlock doesn't care if John insists on doing insipid things. If he wishes to scamper off in service to a god-forsaken _two, _who is Sherlock to argue? Problems only arise when, during preparations to depart, John goes and gets all…Johnish. A gleam in his eye, a bounce in his step, when he goes self-talky and rumbly and fetching, John becomes altogether more interesting than anything Sherlock was culturing, cutting, or burning. That's when the good detective has no choice but to accidentally spill a dilute acid upon his trousers and decamp to the bedroom, where—_quelle surprise_—he finds the only clean clothes he appears to have are the red frilly knickers that make his bum look like an enormous ripe fruit, ready for biting.

* As has been mentioned previously, John very occasionally talks in his sleep. Most of what he says is endearing, for one can not go far wrong with _darling,_ _my love,_ and _oh please._ John's midnight murmurings do lose some of their luster when they contain ambiguous-but-breathy whispers of _don't tell Sherlock_ or _but he'll hear you,_ though it was John's utterly unambiguous murmur of _Mycroft_ that sent Sherlock round the giddy bend one night. While the good doctor to this day maintains he doesn't even _remember_ the dream, Sherlock to this day still gives Mycroft the stink eye if the man so much as uses the word dream, fantasy, or reverie.

* Sherlock's not an understated man and dealing with his irk at John's dream was not the place to begin a career in subtle. So that night and thenceforth on any night he really, really wants to wake John but needs to pretend—come hell or wasted water—that that's not what he wants at all, Sherlock goes to their en suite loo and flushes the toilet approximately eight thousand times. The night of the muttered 'Mycroft' he stomped to the bathroom, banged open the door, and crankily flushed and flushed and flushed until John finally woke because he dreamt he was drowning.

* John can't blame the army, he can't blame his gender, and he can't blame his sister (oh the mouth on her). No, John can't hold anyone responsible for his sometimes-juvenile sense of humour other than himself. And so John readily admits that spending an entire Saturday finding reasons to call Sherlock a private dick was not only adolescent, it was also incorrect. Adolescent for the obvious reasons—it falls short of being as witty as a fart joke—and incorrect in that Sherlock's had that dick out in the middle of Regent's park, behind Madame Tussauds, and in a glass-walled capsule of the slow-moving London Eye. There is absolutely nothing at all private about Sherlock's dick.

* Sherlock ignores most fan mail, unless it's so fantastically bad it requires a scathing thousand word reply, with annotations. The other thing he doesn't ignore are the occasional gifts fans send. Past favourites include framed watercolours of the E. coli, Ebola, and malaria microbes; a complete peacock skeleton; a union flag made out of hair; and, most recently, a vial of blood that supposedly contained hexagonal red blood cells. Sherlock never got to study this wonder, however, because John went mental, and by the way don't defensively hug a parcel to your chest because then your tiny terror of a lover is going to come at you with kitchen tongs and pinch your nipples really hard and totally not in the good way_._

* John had a fit with the whole blood thing, a certifiable, actual, look-it-up-in-the-dictionary _conniption_ fit. Because Sherlock was going to actually study the stuff. Oh he said he'd take proper precautions, but John's seen Sherlock's 'precautions' and they look exactly like squinting around two different-sized monocles when experimenting with acid because he can't be bothered to search for proper eye protection. So right, no, absolutely not, you don't get to fuck around with a wax-stoppered vial of a stranger's blood, mister, and so what you do if you're John is what John did: You yell your head off until your lover gives over the parcel and you use kitchen tongs to put it—and then the tongs—into the hazardous waste bin on the back porch, and then you make your lover take a shower, and then for good measure you get in there with him and scrub until he's pink and groaning but totally not in the good way.

* Sherlock has a thing he does that he denies doing despite John having photographic evidence as well as the repeated testimony of Mrs. Hudson, and that thing is watch an entire movie from the doorway of the kitchen. Always it's a movie he's derided as devoid of artistic merit and Sherlock will last about five minutes past the opening credits before wandering from whatever he's currently burning, breaking, or breeding in the kitchen and, test tube in hand, he'll stand between lounge and kitchen and for the next two hours watch each and every explosion, confession, or kiss.

* John has a thing he does that he does not deny doing and that thing is displaying no interest whatsoever in most of Sherlock's experiments. As a dutiful lover he's aware protocol calls for supportive curiosity but when Sherlock says, "Look John! Applying two grams of pentalathate to this 191.98 degree salt solution causes it to turn blue for zero point eight five seconds," all John usually does is locate a fire extinguisher, mutter "I don't care," and finish fetching himself some biscuits.

* Predictably, Sherlock was irked to learn he has the world's most common blood type. As a matter of fact, so predictable was his pique that John actually told the young phlebotomist beforehand, "Don't tell him if he asks," but the moment Sherlock licked his lips at her she spilled and then kept on spilling. Not only did she tell him that his blood type was the most 'popular,' but that it was absolutely completely so not unique that almost anyone who might need a transfusion could receive it without any ill effects whatsoever. So stunningly unhelpful was this information that it took John an entire year before he could get Sherlock to tag along to another Met blood drive.

* John is capable of great delicacy. It's in the nature of surgeons, the art of the light touch, an ability for precise movement. Yet it wasn't until the good doctor fell in love with an observant man that he at last observed the delicacy within himself. Then Sherlock touched the inside of his wrist one night and John watched in fascination as his body rose up in gooseflesh. Sherlock whispered something sweet between the wings of his shoulder blades and John felt his heart flutter like a bird. And then John heard himself whisper soft words, delicate words he had never said to anyone: _Forever my love, _and _always._

* What Sherlock knew about sex when he started having it with John was vanishingly small. What Sherlock knew about John on that same day was not. Which was why from the start Sherlock loved John's scar. No, that's not quite right. What Sherlock did, what he _does,_ is love _on_ John's scar. In the sweet quiet of some long nights, he'll nuzzle it with his nose, almost sniffing for gunpowder, hot sand, or sun. He'll nibble its edges, he'll look and tongue and touch. But the thing that got John that first time, the thing that gets him every time, is when Sherlock huffs hot breath softly across that world-shifting scar and then slowly, delicately, he kisses that tender flesh.

_KeeblerMC liked the idea of a panty-clad Sherlock waylaying John, while Dancinggrimm wondered if the good doctor ever dream-talks bit-not-good things—then Amber Burton suggested a muttered 'Mycroft.' __Meredydd is the reason for the talk of private dicks, while __Erica Mills asked for something with Sherlock and crap telly._


	46. Chapter 46

* All the time they do it, the amorphous _they. _They compare Sherlock to a cat, whether as compliment or curse, and certainly he is long and sleek, predatory and fine. If it suits him he lets them do it, lets them name him something other than human so they can get a handle on his…him. When the means will gain him his end, Sherlock will don that disguise, embodying a ridiculous feline stereotype. He'll lift a haughty chin; lash his coat; hiss or purr his demands. And it works, which is why he'll keep doing it. But, if asked, Sherlock will tell you two things for a fact: he's nothing at all like a cat. And he knows someone who is.

* You won't hear John Watson move if he wishes to remain silent. For a man who looks sturdy and dense, for one whose swagger sometimes makes him seem bigger and louder than he is, John'll move with silent ease and you _will not_ know he's there. And, like a cat, John's also content to be quiet and watchful, take his place in a corner, silent amidst chatter. These are not the only things feline about the good doctor, but they're the ones the amorphous _they_ will see. The rest are for Sherlock alone, oh yes. The slow licks, the tender bites, the tendency to expose a soft, sweet belly for a special sort of…petting. Yes, if someone, somewhere, wants to liken a man at 221B to a cat, well they really ought to pick the _right_ one.

* Sherlock is well aware that he's an idiot, knew it long before John made his assessment amidst crime scene crew and flashing lights. He is, however, disconcerted by his continued propensity to _prove_ this point. Though really it's John's fault this time, because John knows Sherlock has a sweet tooth, and John knew Sherlock was thirsty, and by the way has John tasted the divinity that is coconut cream and pineapple? And just because John knew there were two spiced ounces of rum in each beverage doesn't mean Sherlock did. Not, at any rate, until he'd gone legless under Lestrade's kitchen table, crooning _Ode to a Nightingale_ to his fourth piña colada.

* John's just going to go ahead and admit he has no clue where Sherlock's sartorial line is. Mostly because the big git keeps moving the damn thing. Cases in point: Formal shirts that'll take cufflinks? Now de rigueur. Glittery-blue, five-inch stilettos bedecked with so many rhinestones they weigh a short tonne? Necessary. A matching blue clutch so dense with the things you could cold-cock a purse snatcher at a dozen yards? Emphatically no. As a matter of fact, Sherlock rolled his eyes so hard John's surprised the man didn't dislodge something. Fine. _Fine._ But until the good doctor gets an apology for the prissy posturing, Sherlock's so not getting the sky-blue cashmere knickers with the little silk bows on.

* Sherlock's not, per se, a jealous man. About John. About the _big_ things. About John. But hell in a tasseled hand basket he's as covetous as a toy-denied toddler about _some_ things. Things like grey. And the manner in which John's _going_ it. Which is to say elegantly. Temptingly. With a dash of silver at temples, a tasteful frame for his fine face. Sherlock's going grey, too. Just a little. But do you know how it manifests? Do you? As _wire._ Or might as well do because every single silver hair Sherlock's got has no direction sense whatsoever. Each strand points in any direction, half straight out of his head like damned antenna, making him look like a mad scientist. And totally not in the sexy-cool gets-the-tough-little-hero kind of way, either.

* John is very picky about plasters. He prefers the fabric kind, which offer a sturdy weave, stretchability, and a generally more forgiving adhesive. It was purely accidental that the brand he most favours comes in bright reds, greens, and blues and so it was purely accidental learning that Sherlock's less inclined to argue about the need of a plaster if the thing is _pretty._ Which explains why 221B not only contains a veritable gay rainbow of the things, but it has plasters in the shape of actual rainbows, magnifying glasses, and skulls. That last one so delighted Sherlock John's nearly certain he spilt that little bit of acid on the back of his hand accidentally on purpose.

* Sherlock used to think the sense of smell as something of an also-ran in the sensory department. Then John walked through the kitchen heading for a boys' night out with Mike and Sherlock couldn't put down the pipettes of shark fecal matter and vinegar fast enough. He followed John down the stairs, out the door, and a good dozen feet along Baker Street before his lover said, "What the hell?" Sherlock's only reply was to shove his face against John's neck and breathe deep of a cologne the good detective still maintains smells of hot tea, John's spit, and bee propolis. In other words, _perfect._

* You'd think it would be Sherlock doing it but it's usually not Sherlock doing it because John gets to it before Sherlock does. And _it_ is accidentally turning on a witness. John doesn't mean to do it of course, but that doesn't mean it doesn't get done, and with some frequency. It probably has everything to do with John's solicitousness, his tendency to press a steady hand against a witness's back, his habit of murmuring encouragements low enough that they must come close to hear. The fact that each and every time this inconvenient thing has occurred John's just been pulled from his warm bed—and Sherlock's sweet body—probably also has just a little bit to do with it.

* Sherlock indulges John in his occasional cloying whimsies. If 'indulge' includes eye rolling, deep sighs, and "Really John?" when the good doctor buys them matching ties, or another singing Christmas wreath. But Sherlock's actually the pot calling the kettle black because when John bought his lover a bunch of guts—stuffed toys shaped like hearts, lungs, livers—Sherlock pretended forbearance but when the flu felled him soon after, he not only cuddled the bright yellow bladder plushie to his chest the entire time, he spent a good ten minutes talking to it one night before the fever medicine at last took hold.

* John is endlessly amused by a drunk Sherlock, especially when Sherlock takes to marching around the flat spouting inebriated nonsense in a sonorous voice, holding forth on the merits of borosilicate glass over tempered; moustaches; and that one squinty-eyed duck in the park. Sometimes, when feeling mischievous, randy, or both, John will follow his sloshed sweetie around the flat, patiently stripping him bare from Adam's apple to ankle, leaving the man woozily clomping about the place wearing nothing but wing tips and long black socks.

* Sherlock remembers the day he became a fool. Is that the wrong word? He suspects it is. The correct word is probably something more lyrical, something like besotted or bewitched, and fine, yes he'll use the correct terminology because that's what a scientist does. Anyway, the point is is that Sherlock remembers the day he looked at John Watson and realised that his world couldn't go back to what it had been before—and more than he wanted breath he wanted John to stay. Yes, the day Sherlock was done for was a Tuesday, and trees were bare and all the flowers long dead. It was the day it started snowing for two weeks straight. The day Sherlock realised he would love John Watson until the day he died. That day was the day of the bees.

* John knew the cufflinks would make Sherlock smile, but he hoped for so much more than that. John hoped those buzzing little jewels, touching his lover's skin throughout the day, would remind the man that another man loved him. That even when he wasn't there John would be there if convenient, and most especially if not. That more than his assistant or his colleague John was his…his…well there's really only one word for it, isn't there? Just one correct one? John was his armour. If, with his body or his words, if with his heart or hands, his rage or love, he could keep Sherlock from harm then John would, that's all. Yeah, that's what he hoped those tiny bees would say for him in their cool silver voices. Just that.

_ArcherBlad3 wondered about Sherlock and cats, while Mugglemom08 asked for Sherlock to overdo it on frou frou drinks. A Field of Deadly Nightshades asked about petty jealousies, Theorclair challenged me to write something involving the I Heart Guts site, while 221b-Hound inspired the cufflinks. Finally, when I asked Kate Lear for a noun she said blood, then Kirakira Nanoda said hurt, so of course the result was plasters. P.S. I am so sorry "Hair Raising" is not yet complete. The final chapter is completely kicking my arse. *Sigh*_


	47. Chapter 47

* John Watson will spend the entirety of his adult life trying not to swear. He will valiantly make great effort to steer clear of fuck and shit, bollocks, bloody, and bastard. He'll be keen to avoid damn it, dick, prick, crap, cunt, and cocksucker. Instead, John will do his best to insert kinder oaths. These gentler obscenities will not long last but they'll often be creative, alliterative, and fairly personal and will include calling Sherlock a fluffy-haired fool, Donovan a sharp-jawed jerk, and Mycroft a great big ginger tit. That John often finishes each of these pale imprecations by mumbling 'and take _that _you little shit' is completely lost on him.

* Some things are not self-evident. That Harry is short for Harriet. That your life can change forever one day in a hospital lab. Or that come will cure your hiccups. The only reason Sherlock knows this last truth for fact is because, when hiccups laid him low a few months ago, Sherlock grew so grumpy at John's giggling—"I'm sorry love, but you _squeak"—_that the good detective decided it would shut them both up if he had something on which to suck. It wasn't until Sherlock had hiccupped through the entire act of giving head, swallowed the ejaculate, then opened his mouth to say something petulant, that everyone realised the hiccups were gone.

* John was a proper little boy, if by proper you mean he loved all the things little boys are said to love. His tricycle for one. As a tiny tyke he was smitten with his tiger-striped three-wheeler and would toddle around on it for hours, making high-voiced little roaring sounds. Another of wee John's favourite things was his gangly purple bunny. This bunny had a way of looking at him, a peering, probing gaze that always made John confess his baby dreams and small sins. It wasn't until many years later, when the good doctor's gangly, purple-shirted lover was looking at him with a peering, probing gaze, that John finally thought, _Oh hey, wait a minute…_

* The problem with starting something is sometimes it _starts something._ Which is by way of explaining why, after John gave him plushies meant to look like internal organs, Sherlock went a bit nuts and decided that if John was going to Sarah's baby's second birthday party, he was going to go too—and bring the baby gifts. Why John said yes to that he still doesn't know, but what everyone _does _know is that Sherlock spent two hundred quid on plushie ebola viruses, plushie cold germs, and two bespoke, velvet-covered soft toys designed to look like severed limbs. Sarah's toddler loved the arm especially and spent most of the afternoon teething on its fake-rotten fingers.

* Like most people who can put weight on easily, John would rather he didn't. But John's not in a panic about it and when he's waxing instead of waning John's learned to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh. Or the pleasures of _Sherlock _enjoying his flesh. While at first the good doctor felt a touch awkward with his lover's love of his soft tummy, that embarrassment went the way of all pointless things and instead sometimes John can be found in the middle of their bed, pants low-slung, rubbing his midriff seductively. Nine times out of ten this consulting detective catnip results in Sherlock rutting against John's belly until he comes, then falling face first into the mattress and wiggling his arse. John then climbs onto _that_ vast acreage and ruts until _he_ comes. This is generally followed by John falling face first into the mattress and everyone passing out amidst the wreckage.

* Sherlock has never broken a single bone, but that doesn't mean he doesn't keep _trying._ Attempts include but are not limited to tripping over kerbs during mad dashes in the dark, nearly breaking a forearm diving for cover seconds before the thing Sherlock expected to explode did so, and falling off a chair after hanging up Mrs. Hudson's mistletoe. A more recent, and perhaps the most spectacular, near-break occurred when Sherlock slipped on excess lube in the shower as he was squatting low and trying to give it to John right up the bum.

* John's got a bad habit, a habit Sherlock considers his worst and no it's not the swearing, it's not visiting terminal violence upon bad people, neither is it his tendency to take so long typing a single sentence that most onlookers are driven mad before he arrives at the full stop. Though these habits are not winning, they're far from John's worst. As far as Sherlock's concerned, that distinction's reserved for the good doctor's tendency to occasionally slide slick fingers right up Sherlock's arse only to start poking around in an impromptu, highly unsexy prostate exam.

* Of course Sherlock's got his own fleet of unfavourable habits, including his proclivity for insulting the insipid, a recent predilection for dipping cheese wedges into the sugar bowl, and his inclination to put crime scene exudate in his mouth to speed up deductions and get a jump on Anderson. While none of these characteristics are charming, right now Sherlock's worst habit is showing off in public toilets, deducing the sexual predilections of strangers by the way they hold their penis. This has already resulted in one black eye for John and the good doctor does not want another.

* John's an inveterate tucker-inner. If there's a blanket within a room and a sleeping Sherlock within that same room, he will unite these things with the fastidiousness of a hen nestling eggs beneath fluffed feathers. With silent precision he'll wedge duvet edges beneath arms, make military corners at feet, tug a hem right on up to a long neck. If Sherlock wakes under these ministrations—usually to John's softly susserated _shhh_—the good detective often pretends to be still sleeping. Mostly this is so he can go about the lumpy-throated business of feeling loved.

* To exactly no one's surprise, if a food splinters, crackles, bursts, or burns Sherlock will order it, eat it, and play with it, only not in that order. It's a new enthusiasm, one inflamed when John introduced his sweetheart to papadums. These foolish little food fancies seem to have little purpose other than as carriers of chutney and to keep six foot infants mostly quiet and messily entertained until their restaurant meal arrives.

* John knows there is an inexhaustible bounty, a feast, an endless sweet reserve of the things. For example, there is little love and sleeping beauty. There's gorgeous boy and angel. There's my love, my darling, and sweetheart. There is no end to John's little terms of endearment for his big, blustery man who, by all rights, should mock them…but doesn't. Instead Sherlock hungers and so John cooks up a feast for his famished love, and for all the years they'll be together he'll feed him just so. On a cold, rainy night when his sweetheart is feeling foul, of a dark winter morning when things are too still, or when John knows Sherlock has seen too much, heard too much, deduced too much…well that's when John will whisper things sweet, sweeter, sweetest. And Sherlock will feed.

* The more he's fed, the hungrier he is. As time goes on, Sherlock's appetite for endearments only grows, it does not diminish. But of all the things he demands from this world as his due, of all his needs and wants on which he's emphatically not silent, this is the only thing for which Sherlock doesn't ask. Instead he waits, and waits, and when the words come…oh he is lavish in his response. For each of John's precious diminutives, for every loving whisper, Sherlock smiles, he purrs, he sighs, he moans. He wraps in long arms the man uttering these soft sentiments and again and again Sherlock offers the very best one he knows in return: _My very, my only, my love._

_Some of this chapter was inspired by people wanting to know a little more about the entries in the previous "Minutiae." So thank you Sakuradancer3 for asking about childhood toys, and Enrapturedreader for being enraptured by the idea of Sherlock's special brand of 'petting' John. Meanwhile the 'great big ginger tit' thing is for SweetLateJuliet, and reading Lockheed_London's wonderful Cabin Pressure fics on AO3 inspired the endearments entries. By the way, this makes 566 entries in a story that was meant to be 312 entries long! Party at Speedy's when I reach 1,000!_


	48. Chapter 48

* Sherlock is not above giving himself gifts if certain ex-army doctors do not_ get the hint_ via a web link, an open browser, and "These would be nice," said three times at volume. So fine, yes, it's not one bit beneath Sherlock's dignity to give himself chocolates shaped like body parts _and,_ finally, it's not beneath that same man to magnanimously share a single sweet with undeserving ex-army doctors. Alas, it is also not beneath certain childish consulting detectives to eat the remaining fifteen chocolates—favouring the colon, as irony would have it—only to discover afterward that the entire lot of them were made with sorbitol.

* All things come with a cost, John knows. The cost of army doctoring? Getting shot. The cost of a midnight cuppa? Hyperactive insomnia. And the cost of loving a sugar addict? ("I prefer aficionado John." "You would." "Thank you." "That wasn't a compliment.") Resisting his doe-eyed pleas for banoffee cupcakes, pie at breakfast, and repeated requests for chocolates made with a sugar substitute known for its laxative effects. Still, sitting on the edge of the tub, distracting his unhappy sweetie with stories of doctorly daring do in Daykundi is, all things considered, a small price to pay for loving a highly entertaining, never-boring, six foot toddler.

* Though he's given up cigarettes for (mostly) good, Sherlock still now and then enjoys a recreational nicotine patch. Tut-tutting at John's tut-tuts, Sherlock claims this is no different than a healthy eater indulging in the occasional bit of cake. Yes, well then there was the winter night they had wriggly sex deep under the duvet and somewhere in the squirming Sherlock's patch transferred itself to John's bottom and it turned out John is _wildly_ susceptible to one of the patch's rarer side effects: Vivid dreams. The good doctor giggled and moaned so many confusing names in his sleep later that night that all the next morning Sherlock was still trying to figure out exactly how very put out he was.

* In the name of excitement, one of the residents of 221B has tried an experimental drug—perhaps that drug was 'accidentally' pilfered from a suspect's lab, perhaps not—whose chief effect was reported to be privates so delicately sensitive that the caress of a soft sigh would lead to a superb orgasm. In actual fact all the experimental drug did was make ejaculation _or _flaccidity impossible for six hours, long hours over which an erection may or may not turn a quite eye-widening crimson. The person who may or may not have stolen the drug and possibly _had_ this experience is probably not the one you think it is.

* This, however, doesn't leave the other one an also-ran in the Big Dolt sweepstakes. For it's the other one who ate that nasty worm at the bottom of a good bottle of tequila, despite neither liking tequila _or_ the consumption of worms but definitely in the spirit of drunken experimentation while attending a stag do for someone each later realised neither knew. Though the supposed aphrodisiac did not lead to an erection, being drunk and horny did. _That_ erect penis did quickly find itself flaccid but only because—after four jabs and a missed hole—both men fell asleep on the half-deflated lilo in the prospective groom's basement.

* John loves tarantulas but hates scorpions. He came by this aversion only recently, when Sherlock accidentally let loose fifteen of the primeval-looking buggers during a new year party and John turned out to be the only person present small enough to fit under their bed, which is where a guest's coat had fallen and most of the scorpions had decided to nest. That none of the arachnids stung him is entirely beside the point, the _point _being that John now hates scorpions for no actual good reason and also, by-the-way, they really need to make some smaller friends.

* Sherlock does not step lightly into new enthusiasms, instead he careens into a fresh hobby with all the ardour of a zealot. Currently Sherlock has a heart-thrumming passion for strawberries. _Everywhere._ They are magnificent in the morning, eaten cold from the fridge. They are an entertainment when bobbed for in a tepid bath. They are, however, at their very best in bed, when thick, dripping slices are passed to him on a soft huff of breath from John's warm, warm mouth.

* John is _not_ jealous because John does not _get_ jealous and besides, we're talking about Sherlock for crying out loud and John will tell you right now that rather than admit to a crush on an actor Sherlock would sooner eat a Madagascar hissing cockroach—and though he'll put an awful lot of awful things in his mouth, roaches are not even in the top three hundred and twelve—so if Sherlock does not actually stop obliquely talking about that damn TV show with the headless horseman and the over-skinny brunette with pretty cheekbones and a frame that's frankly in dire need of a sandwich, John Watson's just going to personally go and _get_ a Madagascar hissing cockroach and…and he's…yeah, no he's not but John is kind of irked right now (which is not even in the same _city_ as jealous), and so…never mind. Just…_never mind._

* Sherlock does not like tuxedos. He does not like repeating himself. And he emphatically does not like events at which he must wear one and ceaselessly do the other. However, he will do these things until he is dead if John continues to do what he does at events in which Sherlock dresses in one of the two long-tailed tuxes he owns. What John does is admire him. Unmistakably. Prodigiously. There is absolutely nothing ambiguous about his gaze. And oh under that hot-eyed gaze Sherlock positively flowers. He stands so very tall in gleaming Oxfords, his spine bowing sinuous. While he pretends to listen to ambassadors or ministers, he bites his lips red. He runs fingers through his curls until they're a mussed, bed-head halo. And Sherlock catches John's eye again and again and soundlessly and all night says _yes, yes, always yes._

* Adrenaline's a funny old thing, John'll tell you that right now, and of course he'd know. You try being a surgeon, then a soldier, then the sweetheart of a glorious, alley-roaming mad man and see if you don't learn an awful lot about the quicksilver that spikes skin cold and beats hearts fast. That said, John's pretty sure there's an entirely different sort of fucking adrenaline reserved for idiot army doctors who, for a case, smear hot wax on their legs and delicate genitalia, and then rip ensnared hair out by its roots. _That_ bloody adrenaline is sharp and mean and it inspires foolish doctors to a great deal of soprano-voiced swearing.

* Sherlock used to dismiss the word heartache as poor poetry, a fanciful term used to describe something that did not exist. And then, seventeen hours and twenty-two minutes after he and John first made love, the good doctor rose from their bed and went away. His destination: Speedy's, to fetch a late breakfast. His absence: Fifteen minutes. And Sherlock's heart? In those long and silent minutes curled tight in his still-John-warmed bed, in those tick-tock moments all alone, Sherlock's heart actually ached. The pain was terrible…until it wasn't. The pain morphed to pleasure when Sherlock realised the fast beating, the yearning? It came from a _more, _not less; a having, not losing; it was the sweet ache of being fed, when for so long he had been hungry.

* A few days after John and Sherlock's fifth anniversary a reporter asked the good doctor where he thought he'd be if he'd never met Sherlock. John grinned, shrugged, and made a well-timed offer of coffee. Alone in bed later that night, his sweetheart in Dublin, John couldn't stop thinking that every possible answer to the question would ultimately have been some grim form of, "Six feet under, I guess." Tossing on a tide of now-rare self-pity, John tried desperately to come up with a god damn different answer. And then the obvious came to him, bright as the light on the mobile suddenly glowing on his bedside table. _John didn't have to answer the fucking question._ Because John did meet Sherlock. John did, he did, he did. And the only grim thing he's got to contemplate as he answers his sweetheart's midnight call, is the wobbly Sherlock's going to throw after learning his maggot farm now resides in a remote Regent's park flower bed and John's not even one bit sorry.

_Revolos55 was the wonder who sent me the body parts chocolates which can be bought at VisualAnatomy (they do NOT contain sorbitol), while Shadowquill17 asked for Sherlock to experience sweet heartache, which gave rise to the penultimate entry in this chapter. 221b_Hound wondered about Sherlock waxing himself, but apparently I thought it was John who had to suffer and meantime, __Dlvvanzor's and Living_In_a_Fantasy's Sherlock adores strawberries and I adore their stories, so a bit of homage was necessary there. And yes, after I saw my first (and still only) episode of "Sleepy Hollow," I decided Sherlock had to crush on pretty, pretty Tom Mison._


	49. Chapter 49

* When reporters ask John their sound bite-seeking questions, the way he handles them depends on his mood. If the interviewer has trod on his very last nerve John resorts to the unvarnished truth. Which is why a recent "_What's in your fridge_?" elicited an honest answer in the form of an actual list, which included: two hundred and forty-eight bee penises; the head of a Carmelite nun; a top hat ("Yes, on the nun."); four sticky toffee puddings; an eyepatch; three dead bats; a wine-filled condom; mascara; a bag of Highgate cemetery soil; dog biscuits; and a chess board. Left off the list because John was in a strop was the half dozen eggs, butter, milk, salad, and lime pickle.

* Journalists are ever on the hunt for a great quote and some will ask the most absurd questions in their quest. And sometimes Sherlock…helps. He does this by being a lying liar who lies. Understand this: Sherlock does not fib to friends or family (mostly), but to strangers, oh that's quite another thing. So when a Daily Mail scribe asked Sherlock what he considered to be "Watson's worst habit," Sherlock thought for a moment and then replied with a face so earnest the journalist still thinks that Sherlock was serious: "He insists _I_ take the oral contraception."

* John loves jewelry on Sherlock, he's made no secret of this. He's bought his beautiful love more chains of silver for neck and waist and wrist, more rings for long fingers, than Sherlock can ever wear, yet lately the bling John fancies most on his beloved are his own dog tags. And while John was pretty sure they'd long since maximised the sexual potential of those tags, the good doctor discovered he was maybe a million percent wrong when he came to bed and found Sherlock…Shhherlock…oh god Sherlock…with the chain wrapped multiple times around his erection and the tags jingling softly against his balls as he slowly, breathlessly stroked himself off.

* For a man who came to the erotic late in life, Sherlock has a fine sexual imagination. He has used it to such imaginative effect—having found them more places to have sex, wearing more things, in more ways, under the most unusual of circumstances—that even Sherlock is amazed. Yet, to be honest, the good detective favours simple sex, slow sex, slightly-predictable sex. He likes to make love in their bed, or on the roof of 221B, places that are known and sweet and safe. Still, Sherlock _does_ enjoy bringing along toys and other temptations, so that night last week, when he rediscovered John's dog tags? Well Sherlock knew just what to do with them, oh yes, he knew exactly how to make _both_ of them…howl.

* A three continents reputation is not a thing that simply goes away. That's because such status is not so much earned as innate. Which is to say that to some men and women, John's an absolute sexpot. It's the swagger of course, and the straight back. It's the tilt of the head that says _oh I know exactly what you're thinking,_ and the smile that's almost never on his mouth but often in his eyes. Yeah, when your allure is that fetchingly intrinsic, well you're going to have to explain to your sweetheart, again, how another constable was able to follow you into the gents, get at your mobile to leave a suggestive photo _and_ her phone number, without you knowing one single thing about it.

* Sherlock mocks Mycroft's tendency for order. He believes the perfect furl of his brother's brolly to be repression made manifest. He sees the stack of pristine pads on his desk as conformity. And most importantly, he finds this facet of his brother's character extremely annoying. Of course Sherlock doesn't see this precise tendency in himself, for Sherlock thinks that skewing the door knocker left is a shout out to anarchy. When he stabs the post into the mantel it's transgressive. And when he leaves the toothpaste cap off again it's fighting against conformity. That he does each of these things with the predictability of convention is entirely lost on him.

* John will never be sure if the adoration was born of the warm water or the sultry evening temperature, all John knows is that he and Sherlock were, post-case and a two hundred miles north of London, wiling away the evening in the deep end of the hotel's pool. Then Sherlock wrapped his legs round John's waist and the good doctor wrapped his arms around Sherlock and for the next hour John held Sherlock close, walking slow in the warm water, ear to Sherlock's chest, half listening to him talk about the case, mostly listening to the lub-dub of his heart, and wondering if they could stay right this way forever, or until John no longer felt like laughing and crying at the same time.

* Sherlock gets fitted for a new suit about twice a year. Mostly this is because criminals seem to relish destroying Sherlock's old suits. The villainous of London have done this deed by throwing at the good detective paint, corrosive chemicals, itching powder, something vaguely radioactive, more types of excrement than it would be polite to list, and, once, a half litre of very floral perfume. So Sherlock is measured for a new suit every spring and autumn. He wanted to donate the old ones to the maximum security prison out past Spitalfields but John told him that that was mean. Which, Sherlock replied, was entirely the point.

* John did it once, for a case, but he will _not_ do it again. That said, John's kind of glad he did it once. Mostly because Sherlock enjoyed himself, but also because it felt…interesting. Now that the hair's grown back (dear god the infernal _itching)_ John's pretty sure the pleasures in his being clean shaven _back there_ came not so much from the goal but the journey. Which is to say it was the act of Sherlock shaving him, and Sherlock's avid response, that they each relished most.

* Sherlock has yet to learn that going silent at exactly the wrong time is exactly like waving a red flag in front of John's face. No, it's exactly like hollering, "Fine! I did it! I broke the wardrobe door, devoured the last three packets of biscuits, and text-insulted Dimmock using your phone." If Sherlock would just remember—and he never, ever will—that petulance, pacing, and his usual snide commentary when accused would render John's accusations baseless, Sherlock wouldn't currently be sitting on a bench in Regent's park with his hands shoved under his thighs, chin on chest, listening to John hollering, "And another thing mister—" while pacing so vigourously he's frightened all the ducks.

* John loves the taste of Sherlock. In bed some nights, when they've spent a long day apart, the good doctor will do an impromptu deduction dance over Sherlock's shivery skin. With a flick of the tongue along his sweetheart's wrinkling nose, he'll report that Sherlock used talc in his morning experiments. With a broad swipe along his jaw John'll announce that Sherlock had gooseberry jam on his afternoon toast. With a slow suck on a bed-mussed curl the good doctor will grumble that the bad man snuck half a cigarette again. And sometimes, when the morning starts early and they've had to hit the ground running, so busy neither had time for a cup of tea much less a shave or shower, well that night John'll snake his tongue down Sherlock's chest, and he'll tell his quick-breathing love he tastes salty, sweet, and just a bit bitter. "You taste," John will whisper, "of what we did last time." And then, amidst Sherlock's soft moans, they'll begin the next time.

* For nearly the first six weeks after they became lovers, Sherlock counted. He counted how many seconds it took John to come back to bed from a midnight loo run. He'd count how often John licked his lips while they watched telly. And Sherlock counted their kisses. For nearly six weeks Sherlock knew exactly how many times they'd kissed because when the kisses stopped Sherlock knew it'd be important to him to know how many kisses there'd been. But then one morning on day…was it day forty?…John pulled the duvet high against the morning and beneath that warm shelter he covered Sherlock in kisses _everywhere._ And though he tried to track them, he really did, Sherlock couldn't, he just couldn't. And so it was right then and right there that Sherlock gave up. He gave up counting kisses…and he gave up believing they would ever end.

_These entries of "Minutiae" (min-oo-sha) were inspired by this and that and the other thing, random neurons firing in my brain as I walk, and the occasional line from one of my own stories that I wanted to expand on just a little. "Limb From Limb" completes next week._


	50. Chapter 50

_Warning: Angst but with a happy resolution!_

* Sherlock still says he wasn't looking for someone to help him, not really. That whole _I need an assistant_ business was more a moment of pique than an actual requirement. Then an interesting little doctor was there in his sitting room and everything changed. Here was a man who said more with a clenched jaw than the entire lot at the Yard did all day, and suddenly Sherlock was _starving._ Starving for the help the man could offer, then famished for everything else, all of it—his respect, his trust, his need, and so very much his love.

* John knew from the start what he was getting into. Who kills a man for a man he just met without understanding life has unexpectedly veered? So it didn't surprise John when a couple months later he was making love to that man, and a couple years after he was marrying him, and now, more than a few decades on, he can't imagine what life was like before Hurricane Sherlock, before a tall tempest in a good coat swept him away from everything he was before, and then showed him everything he could be.

* From a glance that told him _Afghanistan or Iraq,_ from the flash-flicker gaze that informed him lonely, soldier, _necessary,_ Sherlock sees John. If John parts his hair two centimetres further left Sherlock notices. If he polishes his old brogues for a night out, Sherlock observes. And if John loses just over seven pounds in a few months—without giving up a single cream biscuit—Sherlock is very much aware. So late one night, after two days of not-strictly-legal research into the health history of his husband's family, Sherlock tucked his face against John's neck and said quietly and as if he absolutely didn't care, "Maybe we should get check-ups soon, what do you think?"

* John has spent much of his adult life gaining and losing weight. Hell, somewhere in his fifties he actually got so sleek-muscle fit he was Mr. October on the Met's charity calendar thank-you-so-fuckin'-much. So it's true he didn't notice the weight loss. What he did notice though was the suspicious casualness of Sherlock's suggestion that they get a doctor's once over. So the next morning John got on the scale and realised he'd dropped over half a stone. While John's an awful patient, he's good at getting tests, so the good doctor did, and thought he was doing it in secret, but why did he think Sherlock wouldn't follow him this time, as he's done for every one of the last thirty damn years?

* When John's doctor acknowledged a week later—and after being pressed—that the signs could point to cancer, Sherlock turned into an absolute, no-holds-barred, shouting, pacing, foul-mouthed, god damn _dick._ He stomped around her office questioning her competence, her intelligence, her eyesight. He belittled her for dyeing her hair, not maintaining her manicure, for attaining her degree in _Connecticut._ He said seven of the ten most vicious things he has ever said to anyone _ever_ and the thing is…the doctor let him. Even while John yelled at Sherlock at the top of _his_ voice, that woman sat patiently and reflected not for the first time that grief takes many forms and, despite thirty-four years of trying, there were some things she would never, ever get used to.

* After that day at the doctor's office John didn't yell. At first he didn't even cry. Actually the first thing John did was send a card and a bouquet to the doctor knowing it was, quite literally, the very least he could do. No, what John did as they waited for the return of that test was to drag a chair over by a the sitting room window and reflect. Reflect on everything that had happened to him in his almost-seventy years. Reflect on the part that mattered most: Life after the Hurricane. Reflect that no matter what happened next he had something rare and fine and forever: The fierce, no-holds-barred love of his very own storm. So it would be fine. It _had _to be fine.

* Sherlock prays more often than John. This is not saying as much as you'd suppose, for Sherlock prays very little and John even less, but the point is…Sherlock prays. The only times he does so is when John's hurting, and because John is as human as any, he's known pain. And so sometimes Sherlock prays and sometimes those prayers are to a nameless someone—"Please god, let him live"—and sometimes they're prayers to John—"Please, please be okay"—but most of the time when Sherlock prays, he prays to himself. _Do more Sherlock. Be more. Know more, give more, say more… heal him, help him, love him. Love him harder, better, now. If you do he'll get better. If you do…he will get better._

* It's been thirty years since the hurricane and there are some things John knows for sure. He's short and Sherlock's tall. He's still afraid of koi and Sherlock's named all the ducks in Regent's park. And after thirty years John's always recovered from wounds both big and small so Sherlock's prayers must work. Except this one time. With this one thing John didn't get better because John was never worse. As with so many cancers, those of the prostate are sometimes misdiagnosed. Humans make mistakes and always will. And so the day they got that news the good doctor learned another thing for sure. He would have more time with his tempest, he would have glorious _years _yet in which to drown.

* It's an anomaly of the human spirit that sometimes the deeper the pain the more silent the sufferer. By the same note the greater the relief, the weaker the ability to express it. So when he learned John was fine, just fine, Sherlock did little more than sit heavy on their bed, as still and silent as if he were grieving. In a way he was. Grieving for all the years gone that he couldn't rewind and live with John again. Grieving for the moments, minutes, hours when a train journey, a visit to a friend, when _sleep_ would keep them apart. And then Sherlock stopped grieving because he realised he had now and now is forever because you're _in it,_ always. So Sherlock decided to make the most of this now. Sitting there, on their old and familiar bed, Sherlock reached for John.

* John likes watching them make love, but not in a mirror, no. Instead John likes the grace of half-light. He wants to look at their bodies together, yes, but in the gentle reflection of a dark bedroom window. It was 5:21 on a winter night when the biggest problem they'd ever faced was solved, with no more fanfare than the words 'false positive.' So when John laid his mobile back on the night table he turned out their bedroom light, opened the curtains, and reached back to Sherlock.

* John's body has changed over the years. His hair gone silver right through, his smiles grown less rare, and as Sherlock stood behind John at their bedroom window, he reflected on John's reflection, realising how much he loved to look. So Sherlock looked. And yes, there they all gloriously were, the earmarks of John. A beguiling mouth that whispered right into his, filling him with endearments, plans, breath worth breathing. Eyes that saw more than his ever would because they looked for beauty instead of puzzles. And beating steady beneath John's chest, a heart that was still the biggest thing in any room, the best, the wisest, _his._

* Sherlock's body has changed over the years. His stark beauty muting to something softer. Yet as John stood before him at their bedroom window, he reflected on Sherlock's reflection, thinking it'd been too long since he'd really looked. So he looked. And there they were, the earmarks of Sherlock. A beautiful mouth that had learned the grace of whispers. Mercurial eyes that flash-flickered-saw so very much, but grew tender when gazing on him. Fine hands that sought both to protect and to be protected. John took those hands and vowed that tonight, tomorrow, the day after and all those after that, he'd remember to more often look. But now, tonight, in a dark mirror he would love. _They…_would love.

_This particular chapter of Minutiae is for the unbelievably patient __Mid0nz _who, for her Tumblr auction win, requested that I write a bit about John's later-in-life cancer scare, as mentioned in _"Things Found When Unpacking," chapter 10 of Bits, Pieces, and Drabbles__. Though perhaps the seriousness of this entry reads as a Minutiae finale, it emphatically is not. I already have ten more Minutiae chapters written and they've got to go _somewhere...


	51. Chapter 51

* It will be rare that they're both dumbfounded at the same time, and John blames himself frankly, because he's the one who responded poorly _first._ It's like this: Apparently Dr. Watson can deal with vomit, urine, blood, piss, feces, poison, and mucus, but he is incapable of coping with their backed-up kitchen drain and a water-filled sink in which rotted food particles are floating. That he immediately flew off the handle, gesturing at the foul sludge with both hands and yelling at Sherlock to 'fix it, fix it now!' was exactly the thing that made Sherlock incapable of fixing it.

* Sherlock's been yelled at, shot at, accused, defamed, blamed, and otherwise annoyed by many for much, so you'd think the addition of a few food flecks near his bare skin would be fine, but negative, nada, forever times eternity multiplied by infinite _no._ And _why _John thought it all right to bring the kitchen's dirty dishes into their en suit toilet and wash them in the tiny sink there—a place where Sherlock cleanses his face, his teeth, and on lazy evenings, his post-sex penis—is so beyond Sherlock's comprehension that he is rendered mute.

* John can dial his mobile more quickly than Sherlock. You'd think John'd be slower as John's fingers are shorter and his typing atrocious, but John's fingers are fast on a mobile keypad in inverse proportion to how slow they are everywhere else. And so John was able to call Mrs. Hudson first regarding their clogged sink on that long bank holiday weekend and therefore John was the first one to again fly completely off the handle when he heard Mrs. Hudson's new voicemail message which went something like: _If I get one single call from two certain someones while I have my first holiday in a year I will put itching powder in your knickers, your socks, and your lubricant. If you are not those certain someones, please leave a little message._

* In other news: Sherlock rarely records non-case-related datum, as in writes things down in little notebooks. Yet sometimes an elusive banoffee fairy cake recipe is worth jotting, or it's necessary to remember the phone number of that trompe l'oeil artist who can paint flawless cover over fire-damaged tables, walls, chairs, floors, and wardrobes. More recently, however, Sherlock's recorded the utterly repellant, completely charming phrases good Dr. Watson now uses after four weeks locum work on a children's hospital ward. These terrible-wonderful phrases include fibberty-jibbet, flippity-flop, glippity-glop and, Sherlock's very favourite and one he actually used at a crime scene yesterday: Skittery-thump.

* Oh dear mother of fucking pearl slippery things drive John utterly mental. No, right, of course not _every _slippery thing is ire rousing, though frankly John wasn't expecting Sherlock's well-lubed thumb right_ there_ in his—no, wait, never mind. The point _is_ is that the floor of that posh restaurant at Paddington station? Not only was it so shiny John could see his _nose_ hairs in it, it was also slippery enough that he nearly went arse-over-teakettle twice just trying to get to the loo when a plate of penne al'arrabiata took an immediate dislike to him. One longs for few things more intensely than a toilet which one can not, in extremis, reach.

* Sherlock's not a fan of slippery either. Except, yes, right, there was that time John was wet and wanted him to—never mind, no, that's not the point. The point is actually this: While waiting for their Paddington train to Oxford, Sherlock fell asleep in one of the station chairs and here's a fact: A tall man is a weighty thing and when six dense feet pass clean out on slick metal they go boneless and they _slide. _Sherlock's descent was slow but inexorable and he was right in the middle of a good dream where he was a moth and John a blazing bulb when Sherlock slid right off the edge of that slippery seat and ended arse-first on the floor, startling two pie-bald pigeons and waking John _right_ the hell on up.

* Sometimes John lets Sherlock do dumb things. Even when the good doctor knows the thing Sherlock's about to do is so clearly unwise even an espresso-addled three-year-old would not do it on a dare, John just lets Sherlock go right ahead and do that dumb thing with the presumption Sherlock will learn from his dumb mistake. The most recent thing John let Sherlock do was chew a mouthful of dieffenbachia, also known, ironically enough, as dumb cane. The leaves of this slightly toxic plant contain calcium oxalate crystals that, when chewed, can cause precisely the symptoms Sherlock exhibited after masticating a mouthful: Numbness and excessive drooling. Admittedly John felt a bit bad when Sherlock had a spit stain the size of a fifty pence piece spreading across the front of his Dolce & Gabbana shirt, but John was totally right: Sherlock never again put dumb cane in his mouth in the name of an experiment. No, next time he put it on his penis, but that's another story entirely.

* Sherlock spits differently from John. Sherlock didn't realise this until their second week together, distracted as he was with stuffing his face into the warm crux of any part of John's body made available. Anyway, when Sherlock says John spits differently what he means is that John spits _wrong._ Whether he's getting rid of a mouthful of accidentally-consumed bile-tainted milk or spitting out a froth of toothpaste, what John does is just open his mouth and let everything fall out. Sherlock's never been sure if he's trying to make use of gravity, if it's because John can't whistle and so maybe lacks the entire lip-pursing mechanism, or if he's just doing it to be contrary. Suffice to say that John Watson spits entirely incorrectly and one of these days—maybe the year he gets a little tired of shoving his face in the warm crux of any part of John's body made available, yeah, on that day—Sherlock's going to teach him how to do it _right._

* John Watson is not the type to carry a grudge, but sometimes he makes exceptions and he's going to make one for that damned jellyfish, okay? First, John's not really a seawater-wading kind of man to begin with, but when he's strolling in the surf calf-deep with his barefoot love, and they're talking about nice things like which Playa de Las Catedrales restaurant they'll eat at tonight, and whether John will get buggered on their moonlighted lanai or in their fluffy hotel bed, well under those pleasant holiday conditions the good doctor makes exceptions. Then it all happened so fast. John was giggling and pinching Sherlock's bum, then John was hopping on one foot and shouting abuse at a jellyfish, then Sherlock was trying to pee on John, then John was shouting abuse at Sherlock, then Sherlock just picked John up and carried him off and despite the pain of the jellyfish sting, despite the fact that Sherlock had succeeded in peeing on the _wrong _foot, despite still yelling at the top of his voice, well _that_ was precisely when John Watson learned how much he liked getting picked up and carried off. And okay maybe John doesn't hold such a really big grudge against jellyfish in that case and also because that evening ended with Spanish wine, tapas on the lanai, and getting a lot of Torta del Casar smeared on his cock and then sucked off by Sherlock.

* Sherlock doesn't seek out blood and bone, decay or suffering. People think he relishes the dark but they've got it back around: Sherlock finds satisfaction in bringing light. Yet _still _so much with the gruesome gifts. For crying out loud people've given the man shrunken heads and miniature guillotines. He's been gifted with dead bugs, a necklace made of teeth, and most recently a fluffy white bath mat that, when trod on by a wet foot, leaves what looks like bloody prints. John was so swearingly startled the first time he used it that he gave Sherlock permission to burn it right there and then. That's not to say that Sherlock didn't go and then order one online and have it anonymously sent to Her Royal Whatsit, the exceedingly annoying client they had last month whose libidinous intent for John was so obvious that Sherlock had sprained his ankle during that week-long case, nimbly trying to stay between his sweetheart and her grabby hands.

* The cry of seagulls makes John weep. Not often, no, and they haven't for a long while really, but once, right after returning from Afghanistan, John stood in a cold corner of Hyde Park and listened to gulls he couldn't see call overhead. That sound created in him such longing, such desire for home, that in those chill shadows the good doctor closed his eyes and cried. Because even though he was in the middle of a park in the middle of the city he loved, John was very much not home and he knew it. What John didn't know was that one month and four days from _that_ day he would find home—his forever home, if you want to be precious about it—and that place wouldn't be a place at all but a person. All six glorious feet of him.

* The peacocks are what do it to Sherlock, though Sherlock didn't know that until John went on a trip, early in their relationship. So badly did he miss John that Sherlock bought and drank the awful coffees his lover loved, he twice asked Lestrade out for a pint, and he went again and again to Holland Park to stare at the giant koi that always unnerved his lover. And it was there, near that pond with its ungainly fish, that the peacocks raised their voices in what sounded for all the world like a mournful _why._ And it was there and without thinking that Sherlock answered their persistent cry with a litany of his own, "Because I love him. I love him. I love him." Then the good detective smiled softly, dug around in his pocket for a bit of breakfast scone, and on his knees he fed the peacocks and he whispered to them, as if in revelation most rare, "And and and…he loves me."

_I beg your understanding. After more than six hundred entries here I'm finally just going to give up trying to keep each minutiae short (I used to aim for 100 words; ha!) and just go. And apparently the goingest go this time was 240 words about jellyfish. Thank you __Okapi for wanting to know more about that sting, as mentioned in Half-Cocked, and thank you __R. Harper for saying to me 'skittery-thump.' Other entries came from __dealing with a grossly backed-up kitchen sink, from the seagulls who do indeed cry over this fine city, and from the peacocks in Holland park who really do seem to ask endlessly 'Why?'_


	52. Chapter 52

* Sherlock took the case despite John's "instincts," because Sherlock does not _believe _in instincts (yes he does), and even if he did (no, he really does) he was irked with John (that ankle comment was _unnecessary)_ and so, even though John thought Sherlock shouldn't take the case Sherlock took the case and he's glad he did. It turned out to be an _eight _and frankly he had sparkled. Noticing the false door was easy, but realising about the powdered sugar allergy and finding the hidden jewels at the bottom of the vat of marshmallow? Well even the chief superintendent was impressed, as well he should've been. Yes, sure, Sherlock was maybe sick for three days after but he did not technically _ask_ John to sponge bathe him, hand feed him, _or _suck him off under the duvet so Sherlock really does not know what John is going on about.

* John has instincts. Lots of instincts. They're good instincts. For example, even when he meets an annoying, know-it-all git in a hospital lab John's instincts tell him to go ahead and live with the git anyway and look how well that had worked out. Likewise John knows when a case will be good and when a case will be not so good and he sensed from the start that this Turkish thing was an oh-hell-no. But unfortunately Sherlock was irked—look, the ankle thing was a _compliment—_and so he took the case against John's wishes and did his deduction dance and impressed everyone, even the chief superintendent. The problems started when the confectionaire paid Sherlock in rare Turkish delight. Sherlock's _weight_ in rare Turkish delight. It's good John, Mrs. Hudson, the corner grocer, and Mycroft likes it because after devouring two and a half kilos and enduring a three-day belly ache Sherlock won't go near the stuff.

* Sherlock Holmes does not judge. Well, okay, yes he does, all the time and with vigour, but there are some things that are sacrosanct and John's libido is one of them. Of that precious thing Sherlock will not sit in judgment, he will not make sly allusions, he will not pronounce something boring or commonplace or _weird._ So when John attended the Royal Society's summer science festival—"Come with me!" "Is there an astronomy exhibit?" "Yes." "Then no."—the good doctor returned from an evening lecture not only giggling, but with an erection Sherlock could nearly see from space (maybe he should've given the astronomy exhibit a look-in). After Sherlock finally got to the bottom of why John was groping his bottom, the good detective did not at all mind that a talk on insect penises was what had got John going. Sherlock minded even less opening himself up to admit John's…stinger.

* And since we're talking about penises, more or less, let it be said that while John seems all right with his temples being silver-dusted, he's not so keen on going grey _down there._ As a matter of fact, the first time he laid eyes on this particular evidence of aging—sitting in bed with a hard-on and waiting for Sherlock to find the lube already, John looked down, whispered "mother fucking fuck" and decamped to the loo immediately. Therein he proceeded to pluck and swear, pluck and swear for twenty minutes. By the time he emerged, flushed and furious, Sherlock had passed out on top of the duvet, the skull on his belly and the lube so deeply wedged inside her cranium that they ended up having to attack the tube with scissors to get it out.

* Sherlock generally does not swear. He employs the occasional damn for emphasis, but John is enough foul-mouthed for two, thank you. There is, however, one occasion upon which Sherlock blasphemed himself blue, and that was _not _the time he set his dressing gown on fire, it was not the time he dropped his laptop on his big toe and somehow _broke the laptop,_ and neither was it the time he jerked his dressing-gown-clad arm away from a fire, elbowed his laptop to the floor, and then nearly broke his toe. No, the occasion upon which Sherlock most memorably swore was that time, for a case, when he pierced his own penis. He had had to do it himself because John was busy lying on the floor deep-breathing into a paper bag after just _seeing_ Sherlock bring the piercing gun near his cock.

* John Watson did not used to believe a man could die of boredom but he has changed his mind. It's like this: They both knew the loo doorknob needed fixing, yet each presumed the other would do the fixing. As neither fixes more than a sandwich in 221B it's a mystery why anyone presumed anything. The result of all this presupposing was that when the knob finally broke a morning-sleepy John found himself locked in the loo for three hours while Sherlock was at the Met. The good doctor then cleaned the entire room, wanked, took a bath, wondered how hard Mrs. Hudson would kill him if he broke the loo door open, then finally he tried reading the book Sherlock had left beside the toilet. It was when he was on page seven of_ Search, Seizure, and Sequester: 2014 Conference Notes and Addendum, Vol. II—_that John came to the sure and certain belief that a man could definitely die of utter ennui.

* At about the age of four months, Sherlock Holmes became fascinated with his own fingers. Seven-year-old Mycroft Holmes then became fascinated with Sherlock's fascination. It would go like this: Tiny wee Sherlock would lie on his back, chubby legs kicking, and in front of his face he would hold a finger-wiggling hand. He would stare at his randomly gesturing digits for long seconds and then—this was the part Mycroft liked most—he'd raise his other hand _and look at it with great surprise._ This would manifest in his little legs bicycling faster, then shoving the old fingers in his mouth until they were spit-slick and forgotten. Then the pattern would repeat. Sherlock could do this for twenty minutes at a time and Mycroft would be besotted for every moment of it.

* John does not really have an addictive personality (except to Sherlock, danger, biscuits, telly, tea, a long lie-in, sex during a long lie-in, and bank holiday weekends), so the good doctor didn't expect he'd get addicted (well addicted may be a strong word for it, intense giggling _interest_ is more representative) to Mycroft's brief stories of Sherlock as a child, but addicte—uh, 'interested'—John certainly is. They're working from birth to age ten, and so far Mycroft's only on baby-month five, mostly because John keeps leaving the room halfway through a story so he can gaze adoringly at Sherlock, who most times has noisily retreated to another room, where he pretends he's _extremely busy_ but from which place he carefully listens to every coo John makes at every coo _he_ made.

* Sherlock believes that a man never knows what will be of use when, so a _sensible_ man will, for example, craft a dozen experiments to perform on, for example, common house plants. Generally speaking, that man will not regret the time or resources he spends on such experiments. However, if that man is Sherlock Holmes, he will regret the one portion of his recent studies that resulted in the loss of two erections and an entire hour of John's approbation. On the plus side, Sherlock has enough material for a thirty-five hundred-word blog entry, with graphs and formulae (John forbids images), detailing precisely what happens to a hard-on after application of two millilitres of dumb cane sap.

* A sensible man does not put the juice of a dumb cane plant on his penis. John Watson is quite sure of this, just as he is sure that _he_ is a sensible man. Sherlock Holmes however—Well look, all the proof you need you can find as John Watson stands nude this very minute, gesturing with both hands at his flagging erection. The reason John Watson's lovely erection is drooping is because 1) John is sensible and so 2) his penis is annoyed with Sherlock's penis which is 3) as limp as a kitten sleeping in the sun and finally because 4) _some people are crazy in the head at the exact wrong time_.

* Sherlock used to think the endearments and diminutives John murmured were strictly for his benefit, words to make Sherlock understand that he was cherished. It was a long time before the good detective realised that the sweet talk was also for John, that when he called Sherlock _little love_ or whispered _my angel _and felt Sherlock burrow deeper into his arms, well John was being told _yes._ Yes I am yours to cherish, John, I am your sweetheart your lover your friend. Wrapped around you here in the dark and counting the thrumming miracle of your heart I am every pretty thing you wish to name me. For as long as you believe that I am…I promise I will try to be.

* John was a doctor, then a soldier, then an invalid, he was never a writer. But John writes every day now, thousands of words and into the night sometimes, and still he has more to say, more tales to tell, more of _Sherlock_ to bestow on the world. Because Sherlock changes things. He changed John from heart to head to steady hand, he said _this is how I see things, in all their strange dark colour—can _you_ see John?_ And yes, over time John learned to look through those witchy pale eyes because Sherlock took him by the hand and _showed_ him, only him. So John writes and he writes about this man with the new kind of vision and he knows the words are barely enough, but he'll do it all the rest of his days, put pen to paper, and he'll help change things by showing the world the man who changes things.

_A few things: If you've never commented before, this week would be the one to begin. *shakes tin comment cup* Make Atlin's crap-week-from-hell a little better? Second: "Keeping It Loki" continues next week. Finally, Sevenpercent and Harpling asked for more about the dieffenbachia debacle mentioned in chapter 51 of "Minutiae," while __MustangWomanT wondered about the boys' genital hair going grey. The Turkish delight was i__nspired by Chocolamousse's offhand comment about Sherlock receiving his weight in rare sweets, and yes I went to a Royal Society talk on insect penises recently. It was lovely._


	53. Chapter 53

* John Watson loves bad weather. Because John's a doer. Usually he's a doer. When there are things to do. However, when it's minus-holy-shit outside, and the pavement is so slick he's seen a dauschund lose her footing, then John gets into a _snuggle into the sofa with a movie, a book, three medical journals, a whiskey, some tea, and two kinds of biscuits _mode and is happy to be there. At such times he has no wish for the sand truck to come along, the mercury to rise, or for Sherlock to stop octopusing all over him in search of warmth.

* There is not a time or place in which Sherlock Holmes will not eat sweets. He has consumed five fairy cakes from a box of six while queuing at Tesco to buy fairy cakes. He's spooned lemon-lime marmalade right into his maw while bathing. He's left Christmas parties with frosted biscuits bulging from both pockets. And, because John will tackle him to the rug and wrench a treat from his hand if he thinks Sherlock's overindulging, the good detective has been forced to get creative with how he consumes. For awhile he got away with dropping handfuls of jelly babies or wine gums into his takeaway brew, relishing the syrupy result that still looked just like coffee. John eventually twigged to that, so now Sherlock's new sweets stratagem is to take sugary _cases._ Such as the recent one which required the good detective's brain be MRI-scanned and the resulting image used as a model for milk chocolate confections.

* John is not an idiot, no matter how often Sherlock makes the pronouncement. And while he's still not clear on what the actual _case_ of that MRI case was, even he couldn't stop himself from _eating Sherlock's brain._ No one could. The factory that made ten thousand of the chocolates must have sold half of them to every last one of Sherlock's foes or envious colleagues, all of whom John is sure felt they were somehow consuming the essence of their enemy, so to speak. Yes, well John gets Sherlock's essence regularly and in every orifice, so that's not why _he_ became addicted to those sweets. He thinks he nibbled those tiny brains because sometimes, when Sherlock caught him at it, he'd eye-sex him so thoroughly John would have to tackle him to the rug.

* Sherlock never claimed to be the most sex-savvy husband in the world, all right? This is was and ever shall be his only romantic relationship, so how was he to know that, because he's noisy as a brass band before, during, and even sometimes after he comes, that _that_ is pretty much what leads John to be mostly-quiet when _he_ comes? Never mind, that's a rhetorical question and now the real thing Sherlock needs to ask himself is whether he can keep his mouth shut, as in zipped, as in closed, as in completely quiet when John finally just stops messing around down there and at last gets _inside _him with that—_"Oh god John, oh John, oh oooooh yes yes YES!"_ (Apparently not.)

* You know what? The reason Sherlock's so vocal in bed isn't because Sherlock's vocal in bed. It's because John has begged, pleaded, and wheedled Sherlock to be vocal in bed. Through positive reinforcement—deep throating isn't just for secret informants—John's caused Sherlock to associate sex with sounding off and that's because John, who has _never_ been noisy in bed no matter how silent his partner, absolutely positively unashamedly loves the sounds Sherlock makes when pleasured. From low groans to breathy whispers to hollering so loudly the dry cleaner across the street rang at two a.m. to say she'd put creases in all of Sherlock's shirts if he didn't keep it down, John adores Sherlock's vocalisations. They amp the good doctor's pleasure, they wake a tired libido, for heaven's sake, they even turn _Sherlock_ on. So yes, the night Sherlock so valiantly tried to keep quiet John got quite insistently loud about how _loud_ he hoped Sherlock would be.

* Speaking indirectly of ironing, no. Just no multiplied by all the swears John knows, no. The first eight or so weeks of their acquaintance, when Sherlock realised John would say yes to almost anything, he asked the good doctor to iron two of his shirts. The horrible things John called him, the terrible allusions he made, the eye-widening threats of mayhem he promised if he was ever, ever, _at any time ever_ again asked to attend to Sherlock's laundry have guaranteed that Sherlock not only sends out all of his shirts, he quickly and forever became aware that John Excitement Slut Watson only says yes to things that are thrilling. Until he came up with the idea of fingering John while John pressed one of his tuxedoes, that did not include tending to Sherlock's vestments.

* John is not an excitement slut. John is…he's…yes he likes _thrilling_ things, but not just any thrilling thing. If he liked everything that stimulated, he'd like roller coasters and scuba diving and riding a horse, but John's tried the first, studiously avoids the second, and fell off the third so he emphatically does not love just anything thrilling. What John does like is _adventure._ Like Sherlock he relishes not knowing what's going to happen next, he likes nervous giggles and feeling the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He loves being important to what happens next, being necessary, pausing in pools of streetlight searching the shadows, clutching Sherlock's cuff, whispering something vital against his neck. John likes moving too fast to think and getting it right anyway, he likes running when running's important and he—he—John…he…fine, yes John's an excitement slut, damn it, are you happy now?

* It took Sherlock years of vague scratching and slight congestion, but eventually he figured out he's mildly allergic to dogs. This doesn't usually matter as they do not have a dog. They do, however, have puppies. Temporary puppies. Two chubby puppies they are caring for over a bank holiday weekend while their next door neighbours are away. And though Sherlock knows he will feel fluish later, and though he is not exactly a squealer (except in bed with John) (and at a particularly superb crime scene) (or when Mrs. Hudson brings up a banoffee pie), he does kind of squeal when—stretched out on the floor—the puppies waddle across his belly, up his chest, and right over his face, huffing warm against his cheeks. Sherlock had _no_ idea about puppy breath and has now added it to the extensive list of his favourite scents.

* In John's defense he was skunk drunk. Also in John's defense he was that sloshed because Sherlock, who was posing as a bartender, asked him to pose as a drunk and then surreptitiously "helped" him get into character by secretly getting John rat-arsed with absurdly fruity ciders. Further and finally in the good doctor's defense, he maybe has a teeny, tiny, hardly-noticeable stiffy for the Doctor called Who, all twelve/thirteen versions of him, in any order (though eight, my god _eight)._ Anyway that is entirely the only reason John Watson banged on the door of the TARDIS-blue police box outside Earl's Court tube station shouting "Come out! Come out!" until a nice passing constable arrested him, and the whole reason Sherlock wasn't there to provide rescue is because he was busy frenching the pub owner so as to pickpocket the stolen key from her pocket and this missive has wandered entirely off course so we'll end here.

* Baby Sherlock had a dusting of dark hair, a chubby face, and upswept eyes. And yes Mycroft was smitten, captivated by the heat lightning he could _see_ firing in that tiny head. It was no hardship caring for the infant and father more than once had to pry Sherlock from Mycroft's own plump little seven-year-old fingers…except. Except. _Except_ when the baby would _wee._ Actually that would have been a small tribulation but for the fact that infant Sherlock excelled at wriggle-twisting his diaper so much that his little penis would often break free of its confines and two times out of five a cuddling Mycroft would find baby brother peeing right on down the front of his crisp school uniform.

* John would never turn Sherlock's baby stories against him. In the old days _Sherlock_ would have used such tales against anyone who made him feel stupid, angry, or small, so John knows there's something in his love which still needs the reassurance of quid pro quo. Which is why John took Sherlock to bed, plied him with allsorts fed mouth-to-mouth, and told Sherlock about years and years of Watson home movies that show a tow-headed baby John with endlessly tear-glazed eyes. "I was the weepiest kid every last friend of my mum's had ever seen. I would cry if you smiled at me, I would cry if you frowned. Apparently I'd cry when mum nursed me. And then there was my stuffed rabbit…" Long into that night John patiently regaled his love with sniffly story after sniffly story, thinking he was giving Sherlock a little something to hold over his head. John was wrong.

* Quid pro quo: Sherlock wants it from informants, from the Yard, from clients. He does not want it from John, though he understands the human impulse to give for what we get. So when John shared his baby tales, tales Sherlock knew were meant to give him 'ammunition,' they were both surprised that instead of laughing at that long ago child, Sherlock felt protective of him. He wanted to go back and deduce why the baby wept and what he could do to brighten those eyes with smiles. Yet even Sherlock Holmes can't turn back time or undo the wee pains of a tiny heart, all he can do is something sweet and strange and somehow right. He can tug the grown man John became close to his chest, guide a nipple into his mouth, and smile when John begins, dry-eyed and content, to suck.

_TeaNbrains wondered how the boys react to bad weather, Chocolamousse wondered if John irons Sherlock's shirts and sent the chocolate-brains-MRI link, while __Snogandagrope said the magic words puppy breath. The TARDIS prompt came from my hubby, while __Nis, OpalGrey, WingedFoxKit and others liked baby!Sherlock from the previous chapter, so here is more. It seemed quid pro quo to have little!John, too. P.S. Sherlock's list of favourite scents is in chapter 8._


	54. Chapter 54

* Sherlock once studied Hebrew for twenty minutes before successfully posing as a rabbi. He read a pamphlet on antiques and effectively impersonated a salesperson at Christie's. So Sherlock may have a somewhat conflated view of his abilities as a quick study. Which is why, after an entire six weeks of marriage, and tired of the slow dance between Gregory Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock began setting Greg up. Without telling him. At first the DI just assumed the pretty pathologist sharing his cafe table couldn't find another seat. Then the same thing happened two days later with another man and in an _empty_ cafe. By the time a restaurateur chatted him up as he wolfed down a roast and the owner of his favourite pastry shop gave him his Friday special on the house, Greg twigged. Mostly that's because Mycroft called to, um, twig him. Then Sherlock's brother nearly hung up without saying another word but Lestrade's a brave man for a living and so he at last asked Mycroft out and it would be exactly true and correct to say that Sherlock Holmes? He's a quick study. And his brother _so_ owes him.

*John recently received eight marriage proposals in one day. Two came via his blog, one on his mobile, and five to Channel 4. He was in that television station's studio commenting live on a breaking news story when a chubby calico cat anomalously appeared and began stropping his ankles. Reflexively John picked the feline up and finished answering the journalist's pointed questions about gem forgery, carbon dating, and Sherlock's methods. While the good doctor spoke he unconsciously chucked the cat under the chin and swayed back and forth as if rocking a baby. Five of the eight marriage proposals came by day's end, two (a man and a woman) included very detailed photographs. John thought the entire thing a giggling lark, while Sherlock had a great deal to say on the matter by saying a jaw-clenched nothing.

* Sherlock has worn a vast array of strange things for a case, many he will wear again, though for one in particular, once was twice more than enough. In the _well I rather enjoyed that _category comes the somewhat burlesque getup in which John dressed him for a recent case, an outfit that included heels, fishnets, a frilly little skirt, and finely-applied body paint standing in for opera-length gloves and a corset. All night Sherlock hadn't given one whit about what he wore, intent on catching a felonious ring of fashion photogs, but John's lip-licking gaze as they finished giving statements at the Met later that night? Well that had Sherlock tenting his sweet little skirt right there in Lestrade's office.

* There's something about the, uh, fixed position of medical stirrups that…stirs a man. Or so John will tell you if you should ask, he's drunk enough to reply, and Sherlock's right there and bound to say something even more indecent if John does not. So yes, having to strip off in a doctor's office, don a papery little gown, and then spread wide while your then-fiancé pretends to examine you (John's just going to say it was for a case, okay? Just leave it at that, all right?) is very, as we said, _stirring. _To the point that when they got home the boys of Baker Street may or may not have converted the upstairs bed to something approximating an examination couch and then took turns requiring a great deal of, um, close, _manual _inspection.

* Fevers are problematic for Sherlock. They make him moody, achy, and hallucinatory. Which is when he starts talking to things. The toaster. His tea. The human bladder plushie John got him. Of this last item he's particularly fond, possibly because it now knows many of his greatest secrets. Or things he _thinks_ are his greatest secrets when he's giddy with fever dreams. These include the fact that he does not at all care for John's homemade tomato soup, that Lestrade is really rather pretty, and that when Sherlock was six he nervously peed his pants waiting to perform a two word part in the school Christmas play. The fact that John is always in the room during each of these loudly whispered plushie-focused confessions is not something Sherlock ever seems to recall.

* John likes to explore London. So does Sherlock. They do it in different ways and for different reasons and while each believes his method superior, John is now ready to admit that maybe Sherlock's has more to recommend it. This by way of saying John had never been to Crouch End and he thought they ought to go to Crouch End one fine spring night and that walking there would be good for their metabolism. The thing is, they stopped for a meal in Bloomsbury, then ducked behind King's Cross, then got to some bit that was empty and eerie with sodium light, and by the time they'd veered left instead of right and then gone right instead of straight they were standing alone in front of Pentonville prison at ten in the evening on a dead-silent Sunday and the hair on the back of John's neck was so stiffly on end he squeezed Sherlock's hand until the knuckles rubbed together.

* About some things Sherlock's got the courage of Job but, like John, he has an abiding fear of at least one very small thing. Where koi are John's little kryptonite, they recently discovered leeches are Sherlock's. In order to prove to a client that these tiny creatures attach to a host painlessly, Sherlock was Sherlock and did not affix one leech to his body, he affixed twelve. And he was correct, the process was essentially painless. Removing the first leech however _was not at all comfortable_ and that's precisely when Sherlock went off the deep end, shout-panicking "Get them off!" at John, who learned that telling your husband a leech detaches easily on its own when satiated with blood is _exactly _the wrong thing to say if you don't want the man climbing you like a tree, as if gaining one foot of altitude will somehow hasten the leech-slaking process instead of just knocking you both right on over.

* John's used to calming people down after hurricane Sherlock has blown through; it's in the John job description. So he dutifully listened last week as the dry cleaner across the way explained why she'd been cranky about their most recent carnal symphony (her words). "I open the shop early for the business crowd and honestly John, there's only so much midnight masturbation a woman my age can do _and_ still get started at half six, so could you please not shout _quite_ so loud _quite_ so late?" Suffice to say the next time Sherlock began sounding off in the wee hours John muzzled the man with his own moans. Because if there's one way to hush Sherlock right up, it's to give him something he really, really wants to hear.

* Sherlock has measured it, taken samples from it, performed upon it experiments both sensible and suspect. When he's not studying it, he likes to lick it, push it, poke it, nibble and suck it. He's painted it with honey and jam, his come and John's—then lick-nibbled-sucked all those things from it. He's run the tip of each finger gently over its tender softness, fluttered his eyelashes against it. Once, when he and John were maybe a little bit not speaking to one another, he even spoke to _it,_ conveying both his very righteous pique _and _his apology. It is one of so many parts of John that Sherlock loves and will always love, his little outtie, his sweet tiny nub, his wee belly button, oh my yes.

* John doesn't remember this but his first crush, when he was nearly five, was on a boy who was also nearly five. That boy had something John did not: Long hair. John didn't know he wanted to have long hair too, but apparently he did because he liked little Alaric's long locks so much that when the teacher prepared them for outings by telling them to line up in rows and hold each other's hands, for months John made sure he was next to Alaric. As the twin columns of tiny people marched off to play in the park, John and Alaric would swing hands and talk about Alaric's cat or the tarantula photo John had seen or about the hedgehog in Alaric's neighbour's back garden. Though grown-up John doesn't remember his crush, he does remember that the day after his mum gave him a crew cut, Alaric had been so fascinated he'd rubbed both little hands all over John's head. In turn John ran his fingers through his friend's shoulder-length mop. They shared sandwiches and crisps after.

* Sherlock lets the world know what he thinks about nearly everything, but there's one thing he won't admit to himself, John, to anyone, and that's the thought he had the morning after his and John's first night together. He'll admit on that day his chest felt full with an odd combination of butterflies, love, and enough testosterone to send a brigade to its arse-waggling knees, but what Sherlock will not acknowledge is that the very first thought he thought the day after the night they made love was _I hope everyone can see. I hope it's all over my skin and in my eyes and on my hands._ _Let them know. God…let them _know.

* John had known the Yarders just two month when he and Sherlock became lovers, which is to say he didn't really know them. He _did_ know many were indifferent to Sherlock, some jealous, others actively loathed him. So John had no intention of giving them more ammunition for their ire and yeah, 'gay' is ammunition, still. Then John noticed Sherlock reaching for his hand in the Met's halls…and stopping. He caught him grinning…then turning away. Again and again Sherlock looked proud, stood tall, _almost_ said something sweet where others could hear—but didn't. When John at last realised why he kicked himself. Then _he _stood tall at a party where one hundred Met men and women could see, he took Sherlock's hand, then he grinned and kissed his sweetheart in a way that said _You were all so wrong about him, you have no idea, oh god you have no idea. _

_JustMe suggested a newly-married Sherlock set up his friends, while something similar to '__Weatherman interrupted by cat during forecast' clearly needed to happen to John. Walabean asked about a sexy outfit mentioned in "Narcissus," while many__ liked the stirruped clenching from chapter 15 of "The Day They Met. __Chocolamouse wondered what Sherlock says when he talks to his plushies, as mentioned in Minutiae 46, while__ Solea was irked with the dry cleaner's complaints in the previous chapter, so I thought we needed her side of the story. Ravenwolf36 asked about John's first crush, for __LateSweetJuliet and a few others there needed to be more belly button kink, and __Sakuradancer3 wondered what the boys thought about the Yard's reaction to their new status. And finally, yes, I accidentally walked past Pentonville prison recently. Alone. I'm probably never going to visit Crouch End._


	55. Chapter 55

* John hugs absolute strangers when he's happy. No, that's not right. When he's utterly relieved about something John hugs acquaintances who happen to fall within his orbit. Like so: The night they thought Sherlock had been dowsed with anthrax but learned instead he'd been covered in talcum and artificial sweetener, a mixture to which he turned out to be sneezingly allergic? Well, John was so giddy with relief he hugged Dimmock, Superior, three constables he'd never met, and even kissed Lestrade on the mouth. When Mycroft showed up a half hour later, clearly put out, John stunned his brother-in-law with a faire la bise and a gentle pat on the cheek. Yes, _that_ cheek. No real surprise that Lestrade showed up five minutes after _that,_ very clearly put out.

* Sherlock has never been a quiet creature and from the start made noise. This became unmistakably evident when he was ten weeks old and had a brief struggle with colic. The pain for the wee one was so great he cried himself to sleep for a week. Yet, when he'd wake, pain-free for long hours until the next bout of cramps, so habituated was he to his own noises that wee Sherlock would simply lie in his cot, grunting to himself in between gassy little baby belches, legacy of all his previous wailing.

* John Watson has perfect eyesight. This has contributed to his marksman's aim, careful physician's gaze, and to his ability to write in tiny text a pornographic limerick in the gent's by Lestrade's office. John did this to see if Sherlock—who always reads the scrawl on the walls in public loos—would finally admit that he needs glasses. John waited three days, writing more limericks in progressively smaller text, but Sherlock did not make any squint-eyed admissions. Thank god a few days later a suspect threw her briefcase, heels, and spectacles at Sherlock as she ran off, or John probably would have himself soon needed glasses to write those wee lewd limericks. Be that as it may, the suspect's rescued glasses perfectly suited both Sherlock's looks (heavy dark frames) and his far-sightedness. And the now-readable limericks apparently suited his libido, as John found out later.

* Sherlock remembers what he wants to remember. As he's learned to appreciate people in his life who are not John, Sherlock's chosen to remember things that before he'd have made a point to forget. Birthdays chiefly, and the oddities of the people whose birthdays he recalls. Which is why when everyone gave Dimmock cufflinks for his birthday last month, Sherlock gave him a tiny Scottish terrier ceramic—remembering Dimmock's wistful mention of this pet of his youth. To Molly on her birthday Sherlock gave a brace of fresh-baked almond croissants—a treat her long-gone father used to make when she was a child. And to his dry cleaner Sherlock gave a pair of leather knickers. As nice as the sentiment might have been, John had explained that it didn't matter _how_ easy it was to observe a person's S&M fetish, certain presents were emphatically not meant to come from friends. Sherlock never did understand. The dry cleaner stayed out of it. And wore the knickers.

* John Watson would rather have you believe he eats baby ducks than know he once let Sherlock pierce his nipples. And he'd rather have you think he spit on the floor at the House of Lords than have you know he felt completely bad arse with those silver rings stuck through his fragile, manly flesh. And fine, though in extremis he will admit to both of these things because they were for a case, John's just going to look at you as if _you _eat baby ducks and spit on Lords rather than admit he liked getting it up the arse those few weeks Sherlock left his frenum piercing in.

* We all have tells, things we do that betray our moods and emotions. Sherlock, as you might imagine, has more than most. An exasperated Sherlock not only sighs petulant, he holds his shoulders well back; a confused one blinks fast _and_ goes still; and one who's gone three weeks, two days, two hours, and twenty-one minutes without a case—a six, a four, a _one,_ he would take a _one_ at this point_—_paces the flat with a fist to his breastbone and can not be persuaded to unclench it. Not until John calls from somewhere in the city, breathless, and says, "I have a case, I have a case. It's a four, at least. Find me and I'll show you. _Find me Sherlock,"_ and disconnects. Sherlock's tell for joy? Oh that one's simple. He flies. Right on down the steps and to wherever John is waiting.

* John Watson would like to tell you that there's no good way to get wasabi up your nose. Because insanely hot spicy green stuff _up _inevitably leads to mucus, spit, and your brain coming _out._ By now the good doctor should be used to the surprising things Sherlock does, but clearly he is not, so John had just better learn to cope with water, wasabi, coffee, tea, and in one instance a half-masticated carrot in his sinuses each time he responds to these surprising things with shock instead of ennui. So, anyway, if you see John Watson coughing up a lung some day, please just pat his back. After he's done half dying to death he'll thank you. Then he'll head toward Sherlock—who at that moment may be nude, chartreuse, or on fire, who knows—with an expression that will be either murderous or lust-filled. It'll be difficult to tell which, so don't even try.

* Sherlock gets bored a lot. How he manages this boredom changes with the seasons, John's patience, the jam they have on hand, and how much acetylene is left in his blow torch. This weekend, to hasten along a dreary, bright summer day, Sherlock managed boredom by lying with his head and shoulders hanging off the side of the bed, seeing if the sustained blood rush would make him pass out. As he performed this experiment, John read a magazine, then apropos of nothing asked what sort of animal Sherlock would choose to be for a day. John's sweetheart made rude noises at this feeble divertissement, wiggled a little further off the bed, started thinking about the question, and then for forty minutes _did_ pass out due to entirely too much blood to the brain. After he woke the answer was as clear as the erection he'd grown during his nap: "An octopus, John." Sherlock then dived at his sweetheart and set about channeling his inner cephalopod.

* There are strange, unexpected books on John and Sherlock's shelves, books few people expect to see. Sherlock's copy of _Moby Dick_ is there, as is his King James bible, there's also a compendium of internet lingo, and something called _The Anatomy of Love._ However, the most unusual book on their sitting room shelves belongs to John. He bought it last winter, when Sherlock got the flu, and the good doctor loves it so much he sent it to the publisher in hopes of an author autograph—a boon he received. The book is called _Go the Fuck to Sleep,_ 'a bedtime story for parents,' and honest-to-god reading it to Sherlock last winter when the whiny great child was flu-ill and absolutely could not rest, may be the only reason John Watson is currently not in prison for homicide.

* Sherlock did not mean to be a big baby that terrible November. As a matter of fact he tried suffering in a noble, they-make-statues-lauding-you-after type of silence. But when Sherlock gets the flu, Sherlock's joints fill with broken glass and even a hairbrush makes his skin hive up sore. Which is why the good detective's grateful for the small gift given John on day two of their mutual exhaustion. John believes it was the bedtime reading that kept them sane, and while this was part of it, what helped Sherlock's frazzled nerves far more than that bedtime story was sucking on the little yellow bee teether that came with John's new book. When Sherlock was hot, John chilled it, when he was cold John warmed it, and each time Sherlock hooked a long finger through its little loop, he let that wee bee comfort him until John's measured reading sent them both to dreams.

* John's been around men in uniform his entire life. His grandfather served in the navy and granddad's friends used to come by on Remembrance day, every man in full kit, chins high. A white lab coat's just another kind of uniform, so really, John's seen a lot of bodies in a lot of regalia. Which is perhaps why he wasn't prepared for his own reaction after Sherlock took that re-enactment case. When John saw his sweetheart in the red wool of a Victorian-era army dress uniform, the bright scarlet and braiding, the fit and Sherlock's posture, his manners, his _respect_ when he wore it…they took John's breath away. The other reaction John hadn't expected was his own straight-backed esteem—for Sherlock. He stood taller before him, at attention behind, chin lifted, gaze steady. And when Sherlock found the felons, men who had more than once shown no mercy to smaller, weaker men, John's pride in his sweetheart's gifts moved him later to hold Sherlock close and whisper soft, "Thank you." Unsaid were all the other words: _Thank you for your own service. They don't have a Remembrance day for what you do my love, but you've more than once risked as much as any soldier and so…thank you._

* Sherlock knows more than most the quiet sacrifices people make, for Sherlock can hear a man's silence, read a woman's stillness, he can deduce secrets not only bad, but so very good. So Sherlock knows the things no one else does. He knows Lestrade sends a very dear hundred pounds a month to his brother's son, the one trying hard to make it as a writer in Paris. He knows the corner grocers give sandwiches away to homeless kids over by Marylebone station. And Sherlock knows that for every single instance he's seen John step between him and an alley shadow, for each time he's heard John defend him against slander, for every instance he's praised Sherlock within hearing, well John's a dozen times a dozen more than that risked soul or safety to keep Sherlock safe. Because from that very first night John Watson not only believed in Sherlock Holmes, he believed the world _needed_ him. What Sherlock will spend his life showing John is that Sherlock Holmes will always need John Watson. So Sherlock will step between John and alley shadows, he will praise and defend, he will risk everything he has and all that he is…to keep John safe.

_"Keeping It Loki," is not forgotten and will soon continue! So: Baby Sherlock burping came from my "Shave and a Haircut," while the birthday entry was for SkyGypsy (happy birthday!). Blackmorgan snorted wasabi while reading one of my stories, so I needed to apologise. Artemis Fortune asked whether Sherlock would enjoy being an octopus, while '__going to sleep' was my husband's recent prompt and I immediately heard the title of that book (which really does exist!). That then seemed a good time to fulfill MASHFanficChick's request that we learn more about a bee teether I found: tinyurl dot com slash bee-teether._


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